Vanquisher
by Smpreadm
Summary: Hermione, Harry Potter's twin sister separated at birth, is raised by Dumbledore to be the Chosen One. Will she truly be able to harness an unknown power to vanquish the greatest Dark wizard of the age? Hermione's story, through Hogwarts, and beyond.
1. Chapter 1- The Prophecy

June 28, 1980

He perched himself at the edge of the bench and smiled politely at the woman shifting nervously in her seat across from him. Two dirt-smudged tumblers of spiced rum sat between them on the scarred wooden table, the color of the liquid suspect at best, as was trademark of the establishment they had chosen to meet in – the Hog's Head. It was late, and the bar was empty save for themselves and the barman, who had disappeared into the back room shortly after handing them the drinks with a glare.

In front of him, the woman's hand shot out and gripped her glass and attempted to take a gulp – for liquid courage, he imagined – but her hands shook so much she poked herself in her large thick glasses with the lip of the bottle. Turning red, she quickly set it down again.

"So…. Ah… Ms. Trelawney.", Albus Dumbledore spoke up. "You were saying, about your great-great Grandmother, the Seer Cassandra Trelawney?"

"Ye-yes. Yes, she had the Sight, of course, and it was passed down in my family."

"Yes… of course. And has the Sight appeared in others in your family since then?"

"Well – no. These things often, erm, skip…three generations, as you know."

The woman blushed and shifted her eyes.

"…Of course." Dumbledore replied politely. "Could you tell me more about what kind of things you have Seen?"

Through the thick coke-bottle glasses, the woman's eyes looked huge. No doubt it was a look that helped heighten her self-created image of mysticism. She raised her hands in front of her and twirled her fingers like those muggle fortune tellers did. Her many large rings flashed in the reflection of the thin beam of light from a lonely candle in the sconce above their table.

"I – yes, I have Seen manythings…of course… In fact, I have Seen something about _your_ future, Headmaster. You – you shall soon be in GRAVE danger." She declared dramatically, arms circling faster. "Peril stands in every corner and you – you are going to… to be meeting them – soon." She finished lamely.

"Ah… well." His heart sank. "Yes, thank you, Ms. Trelawney, for your forewarning." Dumbledore replied lightly.

Not that he had had much hope upon entering their interview, but her behavior and response confirmed that the poor woman across the table had not an ounce of Seer ability in her, despite her attempts to play the role. Internally, he sighed. With no promising applicants to take up the post of Divinations Professor, it looked likely that he would have to cancel the class. Though it was hardly a loss – the Sight was certainly a real phenomenon, but it had been over a century since the last known Seer lived, and the subject's increasing lack of applicability to students had resulted in a declining interest in attendance in Divinations in recent generations at Hogwarts. Making up his mind, he turned back to the woman and said, not unkindly,

"Well, thank for you coming to meet me tonight, Ms. Trelawney, but I'm afraid you may not be suitable for the post, though I'm sure your talents are great indeed."

Her face fell instantly and she looked on the verge of tears. He felt sorry for her, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Trelawney."

"I…I see…well, thank you a-all the same, Headmaster," she said in a choked voice as she clutched her multitude of shawls.

"I'm afraid I must take my leave now, Ms. Trelawney, but I wish you the very best. Good night."

He smiled apologetically, placed a galleon on the table for their drinks, and stood up, adjusting his cloak.

He had just turned and taken a step to leave when it happened.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches."

It was a raspy, loud, mechanical sounding voice. No inflection or emotion, most unlike Trelawney's usual fluttery whisper.

He turned around quickly and stared at the woman in alarm. Her head was bent at a bizarre angle, to the side and up, towards him, chin out; her mouth agape and eyes open, unblinking. She continued to speak in the same harsh tone – it was most certainly her speaking, in front of him, but at the same time, not…

"Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..." She trailed off, and her eyes closed as if she had fallen asleep.

Dumbledore stood rooted to the spot, shocked, his mind spinning.

He quickly deduced that the Trelawney woman was having a rare and real occurrence of the Sight -_ this was a legitimate prophecy._

_About the Dark Lord. Voldemort. And a Vanquisher. Born at the end of the Seventh month… July. It was already the end of June. The child that the prophecy referred to would be born soon, then._

But how much stock could, and should, he put into this prophecy? He knew that despite common misconception, prophecies were not bound to occur, necessarily, though Fate sometimes pushed hard for certain prophesies to happen. Human action, and reaction alike, did have some say in the determination of whether a prophesized outcome would be become reality.

"_The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not". But what could that possibly refer to? The prophecy could not have been more vague on that account. There were too many unknown factors here. A mere babe, foretold to vanquish Voldemort at the height of his prime, with a power 'the Dark Lord knew not'?_

His head hurt. Maybe doing nothing with this prophecy would be the safest option.

_But no...he could take no risks. He had to act on the assumption that the prophecy would be a reality. It told of a way to end Voldemort's reign, and if there was any slim chance, he had to take it. He had no choice. _

Already whispers had reached his ears, deadly, insidious whispers… of Voldemort's boasts to immortality. Whether they were true, he did not know. But it could not be denied that Voldemort's power was increasing at an alarming rate, his followers ever growing. Attacks were occurring weekly, on the households of muggles, muggleborns, and non-sympathizers, including Order members.

The Order was scrappy and persistent, even hopeful, still; but there was no denying that they were being pushed back, slowly but surely. Only two weeks ago, the Prewett brothers, two of the Order's strongest, had killed in a vicious surprise attack by five Death Eaters in their home. Seeing the green tinge of the Dark Mark hovering over the Prewett house had been nauseating.

Renewed desperation and hopelessness seized on him. He knew many believed that Voldemort feared him – that that somehow simultaneously implied that he had the ability to defeat Voldemort. But it was not true – it was fast approaching the pinnacle where he knew he would not be able to match the powers of the man he once knew as Tom Riddle. Voldemort had tapped into the darkest of arts, and the skills that he, Dumbledore, possessed – fortitude, knowledge, and magical ability – even in his own great capacities – would not be able to stop him.

Grindelwald had been another matter entirely – Gellert (he could not stop himself from still thinking about his old friend by his first name), had certainly been magically powerful, but had used primarily charisma and the gravitas of a social movement, not the dark arts, to power his campaign through Europe. He and Gellert had been matched in magical ability during their iconic battle… but Voldemort had the true dark arts in his favor – an unknown subject to Dumbledore. It would have to take something else entirely to bring about Riddle's defeat.

He not of course not told anyone this – it would inspire utter panic amongst the Order. The chaos of the news alone would bring about their light side's own, even faster, downfall. But he could not lie to himself about the sheer hopelessness that was fast turning into a reality as the tide of numbers turned in Voldemort's favor in recent months.

No, he thought, a coldness seeping into his bones. He needed to act, and act fast. The prophecy had made no mention of a timeline aside from the birth of the child – he would have to assume it would take years for events to play out – decades, in fact, before the child would be able to grow to adulthood and face Voldemort. He had to plan for the long game, then.

A loud snore from behind him shook him out of his thoughts.

"Wha-what? What happened? Did I doze off… oh! Oh I'm so sorry, Headmaster! I don't know what happened!" Trelawney stumbled over her own words, wringing her hands in embarrassment at the thought of falling asleep in front the person she was supposed to be impressing.

Dumbledore turned toward her, looking most serious.

"I… was just staying that Hogwarts would love to have you, Ms. Trelawney. As its Divination teacher this year."

He would need to have the woman close to keep an eye on her, keep her under the protection of himself and the school, what with this turn of events. If anyone were to find out about the prophecy… she would be in great danger indeed.

A wide-eyed Trelawney stared at him for a long second then promptly burst into tears with gratitude.

"Yes, I'll be sending instructions for the start of your employment via owl in the coming week. But I must be off now, I'm afraid. Congratulations again." He rushed as he made a small bow and walked quickly to the door, the sounds of her sniffles intermixed with her professions of thanks following in his wake.

* * *

Late that evening, he was seated in his office at Hogwarts, soft snores coming from the portraits of previous headmasters surrounding the walls of the circular room. The soft undertones of their peaceful sleep juxtaposed the thunderclouds of his thoughts, roiling about in his head.

He had to make plans...plans that not only assumed this prophecy a reality, but ones that would help guarantee its fated result. It was the only foreseeable chance at winning the war, now. _Especially if he himself were to be killed… _he grimaced. the Order would most certainly disband if that were to happen. He couldn't hope that a group with a dead leader and nobody else to pin their hopes on would last long under extended pressure from the opposition.

He focused his mind once more. He needed to pinpoint the prophecy's second character – the child.

"_Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"_

He could be thankful for small wonders, he supposed – the prophecy had been specific enough to narrow down the possible choices by many a degree. To have parents that had thrice defied Voldemort meant ones who battled him often – likely Order members, then. He couldn't recall having ever heard of any non-Order civilians surviving even a first "defiance" with Voldemort, never mind a second and third. Amongst the Order, then… it would have to be the Longbottoms… or the Potters. Both, he knew, were expecting. Yes, and both couples had faced Voldemort three times, if he counted the instances – each twice at Diagon Alley in the early spring – those had been bloody encounters, indeed – and once on the outskirts of Hogsmeade last year.

The Longbottoms had told him early on - months ago, now - that they were expecting a boy. But the Potters, youthful, hopeful, romantics that they were, had chosen not to spoil the big secret for themselves – the gender of their child was unknown.

Either way, he would have to make contingency plans for both scenarios. The prophecy had referred to a "he" – a male child, if the language was to be taken at face value. If the Potters had a girl, then it would automatically eliminate her as a possibility. It would be the Longbottom boy, then, that he would have to secret away into hiding, along with his Auror parents. But if the Potters had a son as well, then he would need to evaluate both boys.

Magical aura and magical strength could be detected from birth in wizarding children. But it was a nuanced ability that very few wizards had anymore, however, due to the sensitivity of magic one needed within themselves first, to be able to reach out and detect the faint tendrils of magic in infants. Powerful pureblood families from centuries past had used this ability to detect squibs in their family tree from birth, but that art had been lost through time with the dilution of magical power that came from inbreeding. Not long after, the knowledge of how to do so, along with the ability, had become almost nonexistent.

However, it had been a subject of magic he himself had pursued doggedly for many years, viewing it as an invaluable skill to possess as Headmaster of Hogwarts and more personally as a proponent of integrating muggleborn magical children into his school.

Yes, he supposed he would have to evaluate the magical skill of both the Longbottom and Potter boys if it came to be so. To disappear both families would be noticed immediately by prying eyes, both friendly and not – the couples were too prominent in the resistance to hope that Voldemort would not hear of both disappearances and not become instantly suspicious. No, to ensure the greatest chance at safety, he would have to choose only one boy and his family to hide, the boy with the greater magical aura. Hide them, and then help train the child in preparation for his destined confrontation with evil. A thankless fate, indeed.

Dumbledore sighed, removed his half moon glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He despised making these kinds of decisions – they seemed so cold, but then again, necessary. Few people realized how prominently calculation and cold hard logic featured in his thinking, deluding themselves into the belief that his twinkling blue eyes were windows into an all-encompassing heart incapable of such a cruelty.

He did not gain the reputation for being the world's greatest wizard by being that naïve. He would make the choice between the boys when the time came.

He took a lemon drop from a bowl on his desk and popped it into his mouth, savoring the sharp tang as the sour candy hit his tongue.

Small comforts like this would all he would have to look forward too in the long years to come.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Greater Good

July 31, 1980

Albus Dumbledore was a restrained man.

In fact, it can be said that Albus Dumbledore possessed an ability for patience and calm that most men would not have even dreamt possible.

That was why, if they had been present to witness it, anyone who knew him would have been quite surprised to see the very same Albus Dumbledore moving briskly – almost _running – _down a quiet suburban lane in Godric's Hollow close to midnight.

It was high summer in the West Country, and a warm breeze flitted through the trees dotting the lawns of the passing houses. It swirled the leaves around his boots as he swept down the street, hood up, in dark robes most unfamiliar to his normally eccentric wardrobe.

The last vestiges of sunlight streaked across a quickly darkening sky, a pretty sight unfortunately completely ignored by this passerby who had attention only for the weight dragging down on his chest so heavily he couldn't recall when it had last been so.

James Potter had flooed him not even an hour ago, his head popping into the fire of the Headmaster's Office to inform him shakily that his wife Lily was in labor. His face had been shining with sweat and his eyes had darted back and forth with terror, spectacles askew. Even his forever unruly hair had been almost shaking in anticipation. Dumbledore had been, in that moment, forcefully reminded that the young man was, really, barely out of boyhood at not even twenty years of age. A boy who was soon to be a young father, and quite probably, the father of a babe with a bleak immediate future.

For Dumbledore had been to the Longbottom's house only yesterday to witness the birth of their son whom they had named Neville. He'd held the boy and touched his magic – gently – but had received a much muted response in return. Though there was still the narrow possibility, it was unlikely that this child was the boy referenced in the prophecy. The odds were just too slim to assume any child without the immediate potential for potent magical ability would have the wherewithal to develop it quickly enough to confront Voldemort's dark magic with a fighting chance. Neville had certainly had magical aura – the boy was no squib, for sure – and Dumbledore had also detected an innate strength of character in him, as well. He would grow up to be a good wizard…but not a _powerful _wizard. And Neville Longbottom and his family should be thanking their lucky stars for that fate.

So, he had concluded that the future that would likely transpire would be Lily Potter giving birth to the boy from the prophecy, tonight – the last night of July.

The potential for strong magical aura in a Potter child was much greater than in a Longbottom, anyway – greater than most magical families, in fact, for they had an unnaturally strong lineage. Though little known, the Potters – James's family – could trace their lineage back to the Peverells, who could, in turn, trace their ancestors back to Godric Gryffindor. It was certainly no coincidence that all three families had resided in Godric's Hollow, nor was it chance that James's inherited invisibility cloak was uncannily similar to Ignotus Peverell's fairy tale cloak. Dumbledore himself had verified its authenticity as the fabled Cloak of Invisibility under the guise of 'borrowing' it for Order work. James had cheerfully complied with no addendum, suggesting an ignorance of the cloak's – and his own – noble origins.

Dumbledore supposed the loss of genealogy was not uncommon, as wizarding families intermarried amongst each other in a most complicated manner. By Merlin, even he himself was distantly related to the Potters, for that matter, once you looked far enough up the tree. But it had taken many long, hard, sleepless nights of research to make those connections. Dumbledore had suffered through those nights in the intervening month since he had learned of the prophecy on the fateful June night. It had been critical for him to learn each potential child's full lineage, to ensure he'd be able to plan for the boy's future with extreme precision.

He recalled pouring over thick dust-covered tomes retrieved stealthily from many a disused library (and hadn't _that _taken a long time), attempting to decipher the cramped handwriting within their pages – "On this first day of Martius, in the Year 1608, Cenric Eadmund Peverell came unto this world, the Baird of…"

Dumbledore was a man gifted with an intense love of learning, but the task had been so tedious that even he had felt on the verge of cracking under the sheer strain – of course, if he hadn't been so fearfully desperate of the cost of giving up, that was. Thus, it had been a moment of shocking clarity, after the drudgery, when he had connected the Potters to Gryffindor. And then realized what it meant. His initial gut reaction had been to laugh.

Wouldn't it just be Fate's mocking humor to make the far-flung descendants of Gryffindor and Slytherin come together as mortal enemies once again, two of the most legendary and powerful wizards their world has yet known? Then he had quickly sobered himself into silence at that depressing thought. If it were true, then it meant the prophecy was not some silly little insignificant plaything of Fate. To mirror history in such a manner was to throw fickle Time and twisted Fate together. If the prophecy came to fruition, it had the potential to to signal a great upheaval in their society. He had to tread lightly and take careful action. Think three steps ahead. Things would not be as they seemed, forging on...

Dumbledore stopped suddenly as he reached his destination, slightly winded from his rapid journey. He had stopped in front of a nondescript white-and-brown two-story house – really, more like a cottage, it was so unassuming. A towering oak rose above it on left, putting half the house in shade from the moonlight high above. He could see that vines were making their slow climb up the white striped walls. It looked homey.

He had avoided apparition anywhere close to the cottage, which was why he had walked such a long distance. He couldn't risk even the slightest possibility of someone knowing he was here, and although he was well adept at concealing his location, it was better to take extra precaution while the Ministry was compromised, as it was now.

The wards around the house shimmered as he let himself in via the front gate, and he quickly reaffixing the layers of protection behind him. He knocked quietly on the front door three times. A pounding of feet down the stairs indicated the owner's awareness of his arrival.

The front door was quickly wrenched open. James Potter stood flushed in the doorway, his expression of open joy and his sparkling eyes a complete contradiction to his earlier presentation in the fireplace.

"Professor…! You're here, finally. Thank Merlin. It's done, Lily's given birth and she's healthy and fine and it's all fine. More than fine, actually." He rushed in one breath, and let out a shaky laugh.

"I'm glad, James." Dumbledore replied, and gripped him comfortingly on the shoulder.

"Come with me," James said, and led the way back upstairs, taking them two steps at a time. On the upstairs landing hall, they passed a doorway that was ajar, and Dumbledore glimpsed a cream-colored room and a brand new bonnet-blue crib chock full of stuffed animals, one massive black dog-bear taking prominence – no doubt gifts from excited friends. He could guess who.

They continued down the hall and reached the back bedroom. "Lily, darling, look who's come." James said softly as he pushed open the door.

The room was dim, and slightly stuffy. Lily Potter was lying in the large four-poster bed that dominated most of the room, under fresh blankets and linens. Her long, straight red hair fanned out around her and contrasted sharply with the white pillows she rested on. She looked tired but happy, and looked up as he entered the room. She smiled and jiggled the small bundle in her arms, wrapped in a bright gold blanket.

"That's our boy," James boasted, going to stand next to Lily and bowed his head fondly to look at his son.

_Thank Merlin. No surprises, then. A boy, just as predicted. _Dumbledore thought with almost no emotion, as resigned as he was to this conclusion already.

He moved closer and saw that the child had thin wisps of dark down on his head, the promises of a head of black hair, no doubt unruly, just like his father. But his eyes, they were a bright, bottle green, like his mother's, he noted to himself. He was a beautiful child. He said so aloud.

James beamed and moved aside as Dumbledore bent down slightly and touched the boy's tiny hand, simultaneously and invisibly reaching out his magic to touch the infant's.

The aura was strong, by all accounts. And stronger than the Longbottom child's by a noticeable amount. Through it, he also sensed an action-oriented temperament. This boy would be a handful, there was no doubt about that...but courage he did not lack.

_Good. He has a hero's heart. _

"… and this one over here, is our girl."

The words didn't register with him immediately; he was still processing the evaluation of the boy in Lily's arms. Upon pulling his magic back completely into himself, he straightened up and his mind, free from the concentration of controlling his magic's movement, moved on to understanding the words.

Dumbledore stopped, turned his head, and stared.

James was taking what looked like a bundle of red blankets from the Mediwitch in the corner, a matronly, dumpy woman dressed in the white apron garb of her occupation. Relieved of her charge, she smiled fondly at the father-daughter duo and disappeared through a connecting door. Dumbledore hadn't even seen her upon entering the room, he had been so focused on the child in Lily's arms, single-minded in his need to confirm his theory.

James was walking over toward where he stood on the right side of the bed, making kissing faces at the bundle in his arms, continuing to speak, "…Can you believe it? Twins! I nearly died from the shock when the Mediwitch told us there was a second one coming. Of course we'd never even considered the possibility, it's so rare these days among our kind…"

Almost outside of his own volition, Dumbledore found himself walking closer to meet James at the foot of the bed. He was looking at the younger man almost unseeingly, his mind whirring at high speed.

_This was not planned for…! Two children... How would this affect the prophecy? It shouldn't, she's a girl, and the boy has already been determined to be the referenced child… hasn't he? This is a complication indeed, at the very least this means another person to hide away –_

"Isn't she just adorable… the brown hair is from my dad and Lily's mum, we think – they both had brown hair… would you like to hold her, Professor?"

Dumbledore's train of thought, on the verge of speeding off its rails, was abruptly disrupted. Without waiting for an answer, James moved the bundle closer to the older wizard, who raised his arms to accept it.

He peered down. Yes, the child did have brown hair, was his first thought. His second was, _my what an interesting shade of colors in the eyes. _She didn't have Lily's green eyes, like her brother, but James's hazel ones… _but more nuanced_, Dumbledore ruminated. There were more colors, like a mixture of caramel and honey. As he looked at her eyes, he noticed they were following his own, quite intently, coordinated, and with curiosity.

He eyebrows dipped slightly – this was unusual behavior for a newborn. He moved his arm and reached a long thin finger toward her bunched up hand, not unlike his movement towards her brother only moments ago.

Her tiny hand unclenched and made to grab his finger in the air.

The connection of magic was instantaneous. As she had reached out for his finger, so had her magic reached out to his. It was as if like a shock, a force… it was hard to describe. He was unable to move as her magic washed around him in waves. It was uncontrolled, directionless, and erratic, but it was there, in it's rawest form – Magic. Potency.

_Potential. _

Thoughts, jumbled fragments of thoughts clashed together.

_She's the one, there can be no doubt. The magic, the aura… there is simply no other conclusion. This one, the girl, has the potential to match Riddle's power. It's her… it's her. But, how? How can it be…the prophecy distinctly used 'he'… unless… in the womb… it didn't know? There were two infants in the womb, unexpected, and of different genders… the prophecy, it couldn't tell, it would not have known… could that mean it resorted to using the nonpartisan pronoun – "He"? My God…_

He had known, from the beginning, that he could not expect to contain the contents of the prophecy from being revealed, forever. Aside from its source being a walking talking individual not entirely within his control (Trelawney wouldn't remember what she said but there were ways to break into the human unconscious, through torture and other means…), he was aware the Ministry kept detailed records in the Hall of Prophesies. He didn't doubt that the record of this prophecy had likely already appeared on one of the shelves, logged and dated with German precision. A break-in to the Hall was not outside the bounds of possibility, if one knew what one was looking for. And worst of all, he expected any day now for Voldemort to, in fact, know what he was looking for.

Dumbledore had found out upon his next visit to the Hog's Head a week after his interview with Trelawney that there had been a man sneaking outside the room when the prophecy was voiced. The barman – a long and frustrating acquaintance of his – had mentioned off chance that he had caught "a greasy little sneak" lurking outside the ajar door that night, but had tossed him out "faster than you can say 'butterbeer'". He suspected the 'sneak' – a Death Eater – who else could it have been – had only heard a snippet of the beginning, if anything, if that was the case. But still… he had to assume Voldemort had the potential to uncover the full prophecy, and for that reason, he must consider it an eventuality.

It had already cost him so much, time and again, to underestimate Riddle.

It had cost them all so much. Too much.

_Not this time. No…_

He was fairly sure that, just like him, Riddle would assume the 'he' a male.

_Prejudice will get its karma. Which means no one would suspect the girl… but once the Potters' news of twins was made public, even if she was not suspected, she would be a target by association, and certainly a target if anyone found out about her magic. If there was only a way to hide her existence from Riddle… make her a non-factor in relation to the prophecy… but to do it, to truly do it, it would mean to hide her from everyone, the Order, the Potters' friends… if anyone knew, the potential for the knowledge to be leaked was too high. Already he suspected a mole, uncomfortably close… No, he would not be able to triage that knowledge once it left this house. But what if the family hid – all four together – now, immediately. The risk was still high… if they were found, both children would be dead, together…_

_The girl, it's the girl. Voldemort would never expect it… No one would expect it. No one would know. _

_No one would know…_

"… so we decided to name him Harry, after my great-uncle, the brother of my dad's mum, you know. Great man. And our daughter, we've named her Hermione, after some girl in Lily's favorite muggle play – by, er, that one bloke, Shakeshield or something or other." James frowned, then rolled his eyes congenially, smiling.

His smile wavered slightly as he peered up at the taller wizard, when his last statement was met with no reaction.

"…Professor?"

…_No one would know…NO ONE could know! _

There was no time to think, no time for a moral weighing of the scales. His wand was in his hand before he even knew it. He raised it to point at James – "Stupefy!". The boy barely had time to rearrange his features into a look of surprise before he crumpled to the ground.

"Professor – what-", Lily said from the bed, moving to sit up straighter.

"Stupefy!"

She fell back onto her pillows, the infant still in her arms, unhurt. The boy – Harry – began to cry. The girl, in his arms – Hermione, she was called – still silent, was looking at him now with her hazel-honey eyes.

"Lily, dear, I've made you a cup of tea mixed with a potion that should help your – what's going on?" The Mediwitch had returned from the connecting room with a steaming cup and saucer balanced in her hands.

He stunned the Mediwitch too and levitated the cup of tea onto the bedside table.

He had to move fast.

Striding over to and kneeling next to James, he whispered "Rennervate" – the man blinked groggily up at him.

He looked into the younger man's eyes and wordlessly activated Legilimency. He shifted through James's mind, collecting bits and pieces of his memories of the last hour - anything to do with his daughter's birth, her very existence. He left enough for James to remember the birth of his son, and also inserted a few false memories about his – Dumbledore's – behavior and departure. Dumbledore pulled the thread of memories together and weaved them deftly in a continuous timeline to ensure the prone man would never realize anything was missing from his consciousness upon reawakening.

Mentally, he collected the fragments of memory about Hermione, and with one word – "Obliviate!" – took them from her father.

He put James in a bewitched sleep, then quickly moved on to Obliviate the Mediwitch and Lily in a similar fashion.

Lingering over Lily, he looked at baby Harry, still hiccupping with tears… this boy would likely be Voldemort's target, now. He, Dumbledore, would not condemn the boy, despite this conclusion… No, he would help the boy too. Just like he would help his twin sister.

The touched the tip of his wand to little Harry Potter's forehead and sent him off to the land of dreams, before he walked out of the room and out of the house with finality.

The street was just as silent and sleepy as it had been when he had arrived, quite oblivious to the significant and rather alarming events that had just taken place inside one of it's own little thatched cottages.

An equally sleepy babe lay bundled in a blanket of deep scarlet in the crook of his arm. Glancing down at her, the guilt crept into his heart – for taking her from her family, for choosing her to carry this burden, for what he knew to be her future.

He shifted the bundle closer to his chest, and waved his wand towards the upper window of the house, lifting the sleeping spell from the three adults. Then he silently Disapparated.

He had had no choice, really.

It was for the Greater Good.


	3. Chapter 3 - She Will Be Loved

August 27, 1980

A pair of bright yellow headlights arced across metal signpost, which stood straight and narrow in the corner of the darkened suburban intersection. The reflection of the light briefly illuminated its letters – they read "Victoria Lane". The car whose lights the beams belonged to soon following as it rounded the corner of the street, the hum of its engine growing louder as it made it's way down the paved road.

On Tuesday evenings, Richard Granger attended the meetings of the South Bedford Dental Practitioners Association, where he served on the volunteer board. He was an orthodontic surgeon and his wife, Nancy, a pediatric dentist. They ran a busy and successful little practice in a well-to-do neighborhood in Bedfordshire.

The man in the car pulled the nose of his sedan into Number Ten, one of the many narrow driveways lining Victoria Lane; it was nearly eleven o' clock at night and the street was quite deserted. He put the gearshift of his car into "park" and turned off the engine.

The weekly meetings of the Association were usually a bore, and the one tonight had certainly not been an exception. That pompous peacock, _Dr. _Willoughby Fogg, had gone on another one of his monotonous drones about his research in gingival sensitivity.

Richard snorted at the memory. _As if the subject hadn't been excavated quite thoroughly already. It was hardly groundbreaking. Honestly, a doctorate was wasted on that man. _

He hadn't wanted to sign up for the board – whose other members were just as stuffy and self-absorbed as Willoughy Fogg – but Nancy had pushed him into it, to – as she had put it delicately – "be involved and mingle". She herself had taken up with a local book club in the next village over, a group comprised mostly of gossiping housewives who met on Sundays for tea to discuss the latest scintillating romance of choice.

Neither he nor his wife, he knew, was particularly enjoying their newfound past-times. They were not naturally outgoing people; quite the opposite, actually. They were the sort who most kept to themselves, and who were perfectly content with each other's company. Group activities – and, God forbid, raucous group activities –were found to be positively distasteful. The Grangers ascribed to the belief that, as a general rule, one's time was much better spent on an evening in with a cup of tea and the latest edition of the Journal of Clinical Dentistry, thank you very much.

But Nancy had pleaded with him that they needed to push themselves to stay active and "make new friends". If not for their own social amusement, then to at least keep their minds off the part of their lives – or really, the part missing from their lives – that neither wanted to speak about.

He closed his car door and sighed, looking up at his home. Painted a light robin-egg-blue with pale yellow trimmings, even in the darkness the house gave an impression of warmth and cheer. It was a family home. The corner of his lips turned down, and in that moment, the sad expression made him look a decade older than his forty-two years.

When they first had moved to the neighborhood, years ago, he and Nancy _had_ planned for it to be a family home – a home with children. They had been young, fresh-faced dental school graduates, and in love. They had opened the practice together, and after the few years it took to secure the business's smooth running, they'd turned eagerly to pursuing the next chapter of their lives together – parenthood.

Two years of hard trying and several hundred disposable pregnancy sticks later, they were still not expecting. These things were often unpredictable, and took time, they knew, and so remained hopeful. But after passing the four year mark, however, they could no longer delude themselves into thinking their lack of success was due to unluckiness, and went to seek the advice of a specialist.

Oh, how desperately, they had wanted it to a home with children. But life's cruel randomness had chosen Nancy to have a rare health condition that, though benign in all other ways, made her barren. He'd been flabbergasted, and angry – how could his Nancy, the gentlest and sweetest woman he knew, who had a heart big enough to love a hundred children, have a "hostile womb"?

The following months had been a dark period of their lives – Nancy had had to take time off from work to recover emotionally. But they had resigned themselves to what fate had given them, and moved on to other options. If they couldn't have children of their own blood, then fine – that didn't mean they couldn't love another child. They'd turned to adoption organizations with a fervor family members had found alarming.

But the Grangers quickly found the adoption process in England to be time consuming and harrowing – the sheer number of legal and administrative hoops they had had to jump through – home visits, evaluations of their financial soundness, interviews with acquaintances to gauge their mental and emotional fitness – had taken almost a year. Then they were placed on the waiting list.

That infernal waiting list from hell.

The fact of the matter was, it had been three years that they'd been on the damn list and they were no closer to getting a child of their own than the Queen was likely to sprout antlers.

After the twentieth time their inquiries had been met with the standard "No, no news yet, but it won't be long now" from the adoption center representative, he had entertained, in a moment of wild desperation (egged on, perhaps, by a large, strong whisky), the idea of simply _taking _a baby.

Perhaps he could circumvent the whole convoluted contraption of a system and pay off a pregnant teen to just give them baby secretly, instead of to the hospital for adoption. The baby would have a good home, he'd thought defensively, a good future, and it would be the most loved child in the whole of Britain.

But then he'd come to his senses and thought, baby thievery was hardly the sort of role model behavior appropriate for a future father. Well that, and the fact that he would fare miserably in prison.

And so the couple had done nothing, but continued to wait. The dawning of a new decade had come and gone, and he was still waiting, filling the intervening time by putting himself through useless things like dental association meetings with fools he couldn't stand.

Sighing, Richard Granger hitched his bag onto his shoulder and walked up the angled driveway towards the front door. He paused there, rummaged in the pockets of his jacket for his keys, and let himself into the darkened house.

Unbeknownst to him, the man's every move since his car had turned the corner, had been watched by a pair of huge, violet, tennis ball eyes hidden, at that very moment, in the dark hedge lining the neighboring Number Nine's yard.

Not long after, the light in the upstairs bedroom of Number Ten went out and the house was quiet, save only for the chirping of grasshoppers breaking the silence of the humid night.

With a small 'pop', the eyes, and the creature they belonged to, vanished into thin air.

* * *

_Earlier that day_

Albus Dumbledore stared unseeingly at one of many spinning sneakoscopes whirring lightly on a side table in his office, lost in thought. His left arm dangled into a handsome mahogany crib that stood at the center of the circular room.

He pursed his lips and considered the events of the last fortnight. The Potters still suspected nothing, and unless some external force intervened or he lifted the spell of his own accord, they never would. Only last week at the meeting at the Bones's house, the young couple had introduced and celebrated their new baby boy with fellow Order members. Baby Harry's presence had done wonders in lifting the spirits of the usually somber gathering. Everyone had surrounding Lily to coo at little Harry in her arms as James had stood with his arm around her, both ecstatic as they received the congratulations.

The ever-affable Sirius Black had been practically gloating with pride for his godson, telling anyone who would listen how he had already bought a toy broomstick for the infant, and would be teaching him to fly as soon as the boy learned to crawl. Others, too, had smiled and laughed and praised the new life in their midst. Why, at one point, Dumbledore could have sworn he'd even glimpsed Alastor Moody looking as if he were blinking back tears.

No one suspected a thing about the missing twin, it seemed.

Or the prophecy, for that matter.

Dumbledore wasn't sure if he felt more relieved or uneasy about the fact that so far, he had heard only radio silence from the other side on that front. No indication that Voldemort was instigating a manhunt for his supposed destroyer; no whispers of unusual maliciousness towards a newborn. Perhaps the sneak that had heard the snippet of the prophecy had gotten cold feet.

Suddenly, he felt something wet. The baby, who had been playing with his hands, had taken one of his fingers into her toothless mouth and was now covering it with slobber. Her brown eyes were lively and laughing at him.

He smiled and his heart softened. He had become very attached to the child in the few weeks since he'd stolen her away from the Potters (he grimaced at the use of that word, but there was really no better way to say it). But his affection notwithstanding, he would have to give her away, and soon.

He'd given the next stage of his plan deep thought. Now with the child disassociated with the Potters, and therefore, with the prophecy, it was a matter of what to do with her next. The most obvious answer, and – there was no way around it, the best answer – was to place her with muggle parents. The child would be hidden in plain sight… only somewhere no one would bother to look. He would be the singular person in the wizarding world to know of her existence as a witch, until it was time for her to enter Hogwarts. And even then, no one would suspect her parentage if he spun the right tale.

Her training would need to start early, before the age of eleven; he could easily have access to her while she lived in the muggle world, in order to teach her. It would not be difficult. He could claim to her parents to be a distant relation, her great-great uncle or something. In fact, claiming her as a distant niece might even serve the situation well once she eventually entered Hogwarts, as a cover for continued private training and lessons…

His train of thought was interrupted as he felt the child move from chewing his finger, to gnawing at his knuckle. He looked fondly down at her in the crib. Her hair had grown out considerably since her birth, and it was a darker brown than it had been before. The eyes and the magic, however, were unchanged.

Though it was paramount to keep her existence a close secret at this stage, upon bringing her back to Hogwarts he had quickly realized that he needed help taking care of the baby while he looked for a more permanent home for her. Despite his hundred years on the planet, his reputation and knowledge, and the fact that he was an long-serving and excellent Headmaster of a children's school, Albus Dumbledore had absolutely zero experience with infants. Bookishness did not, apparently, translate into application where diapers and bottle-feeding were concerned.

Therefore, early on he had conscripted a Hogwarts house elf named Tansy to aid with the baby – a loyal house elf was much more discreet than another person – and child and elf had taken an instant liking to each other. Tansy had also apparently taken well to foster-mothering – where before she bowed and scraped to him as Headmaster repeatedly in his presence, now he found himself being scolded by the elf at least twice daily.

As if he's said his thoughts aloud, just then a squeaky voice said admonishing on his left, "Headmaster, you is not letting the little Miss sleep, you is not. The little Miss needs her nappy time!"

Suppressing a smile, he acquiesced, detangling his finger from the baby's grasp and moved back from the crib. Hermione gurgled at the loss of contact. Tansy immediately replaced him beside the crib and with began fussing with the blankets inside, wrapping them neatly around the child.

"Tansy. I need you to do something for me, please."

The house elf pulled her doting gaze from the baby's face with considerable difficulty, then turned her violet eyes to look at him. She gave a little bow.

"Yes, Headmaster, what is you needing Tansy to do?"

"I need you to stand watch outside a muggle home tonight, and inform me when its owners have gone to sleep." Dumbledore paused. "Then we will take Hermione there… to her new home."

The elf looked aghast.

"Take… take the little Miss away, away from Hogwarts, to live… with muggles? But _sir!_"

Dumbledore sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He found himself doing that a lot these days. "Yes, unfortunately, it must be so. She cannot stay here, in the castle, once term starts in three days time. I cannot care for her while I am to do my duties here at the school."

"Tansy can raise her, sir! Tansy will do a good job with the little Miss, Tansy will see she becomes a proper young lady, she will," the elf replied eagerly, her eyes enormous.

"No, Tansy. She deserves a real family – parents – to raise her. You wouldn't want her to grow up in the Hogwarts kitchens, would you? These muggles…I have watched them. They're good people. They'll love her very much."

"Oh, but Headmaster_. _What will the little Missy do without Tansy… _what will Tansy do without the little Miss?" _

Tears, which had welled up in her large protuberant eyes, were now spilling over in large droplets and running down the elf's long nose.

Dumbledore gave her a sad little smile.

"Don't fret, Tansy. It's not goodbye forever."

* * *

Later that night, a strange pair of companions stood on the porch of a quaint, robin-egg-blue house with canary yellow trimmings.

One of the companions was a tall, thin, man in a dark cloak, with a long beard of white trailing down to his knees. Next to him stood a funny little creature with bat-like ears who was wearing what looked like a starched pillowcase. The creature was sniffling quietly.

The tall man knelt down, and produced something from inside his cloak. He paused over it, perfectly still, as if in prayer. Then he stood back up abruptly and squared his shoulders. A second later, both he and the creature had disappeared.

Where they had stood, all there was left was a small bundle of blankets, shifting slightly with the rise and fall of the breathing of the infant tucked inside. Her eyes were closed and she was in a deep sleep, oblivious to her surroundings and the fact that, in a few short hours, she would be woken quite suddenly by the exclaimed shout of surprise of one Richard Granger, D.D.S, on his way out for his morning run.

But for now, nothing would interrupt her pleasant dreams. The infant turned her head slightly and a small hand came to rest on the corner of an envelope that had been tucked in with her. The baby named Hermione let out a small, almost soundless sigh, and was carried off by that fickle mistress, slumber.


	4. Chapter 4 - Reunion & Separation

Spring, 1985

Dumbledore stood still and regarded himself in the handsome wooden mirror that stood in the corner of his office. He and his outfit looked extremely unbefitting in the middle of a room that otherwise clearly projected magical eccentricity. His usual floor length robes had been replaced with distinctly muggle clothes: a smart two-piece grey suit, dark necktie, and a thick canvas peacoat.

It was paramount he came off as muggle-ish as possible for this particular trip; he needed to make a good first impression if he didn't want things to become difficult. Dumbledore had even gone so far as to consider glamouring away his beard to something shorter to match the style of the day, but then again, wasn't there the saying that "a man felt naked without his beard?"

He was already feeling a bit nervous. He decided to keep the beard.

A soft hoot from the red phoenix perched on the brass stand behind him made him turn his head. "Not bad then, do you think, Fawkes?" He mused aloud. The bird gave another soft hoot and ruffled its feathers in assent.

Dumbledore turned back around to face his reflection in the mirror once more, and scrutinized the image closely. He reached up to fix his tie compulsively for the umpteenth time, then, finally satisfied with his appearance, Disapparated silently from the room.

He found himself standing in front of a quaint blue house on an otherwise normal neighborhood street. Not much had changed about it, though it had been a long time since he had last stood in this spot. But his memory, much like the house itself, had not faded with age. The yellow trimmings had slightly darkened with weathering from the elements, but there were distinct signs of new life all around the yard – new flower beds stood fresh and tall underneath each set of windows, and there was a pink child's bicycle perched against the garage.

Dumbledore approached the door and knocked lightly.

A few seconds passed, then he heard the lock click back and the door opened a crack. A pair of curious hazel eyes framed by light brown curls peered at him curiously through the slit.

The little girl had wide, intelligent, curious eyes of such a peculiar color, a pert little nose, and lips set in a serious lilt that made her look solemn and mature for her age, though she couldn't have been been more than four years old.

He couldn't resist staring.

"Can I help you?" The small girl said in a high childish voice.

"Yes. Are you Hermione Granger?" he asked kindly, mentally berating himself to pull it together.

She regarded him openly with those big eyes, without suspicion. "Yes…" she replied slowly… "How do you know?"

He gave her a small smile. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. Can I speak to your parents?"

She continued to look at him with a strange expression, then cautiously pulled herself back from the doorframe and said, "Be right back." He heard her footsteps running down the hall calling for her parents.

"Mummy! Someone named Alice Bubbledore is at the door."

"Who's at the door, dear?"

"Alice Bubbledore! He wants to talk to you."

There was a silence, then quick, heavier, urgent steps. The door was wrenched open by a woman in an apron who was wiping her hands quickly on her front to dry them. She was an attractive woman in what looked to be her late forties, thin, and with dark blonde hair. Her pleasant features, however, were overshadowed by the fact that she looked positively terrified at the sight of him.

"Mrs. Granger? How do you do." He said politely, tipping a small bow in her direction. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I was wondering if I could come in and speak with you and your husband." He said mildly, trying to present himself as non-threateningly as possible.

In his peripheral vision, he could see her hands bunching the folds of her apron tightly. She didn't reply, but had turned as white as a sheet at his introduction.

He saw no choice but to continue talking. "I think you know why I'm here." His gaze flitted down to the small girl who had come to stand half-hidden behind her mother's dress; she was staring curiously at him again. "But I'm only here to talk." He tried to reassure the mother.

"I – yes, alright then." She said finally, slightly flustered. "Come in. Let me get my husband." She opened the door open fully and stepped aside to let him pass through, then closed the door soundly behind him. "Richard!" she called down the hallway leading off of the entrance hall where they stood, then turned to her daughter and gripped the little girl's shoulders.

"Go upstairs Hermione, sweetie."

The little girl pulled her gaze from Dumbledore to look at her mother. "Why, mummy? What's wrong?"

"Nothing sweetie. Just got upstairs and read a book, alright? There's a good girl."

The child nodded slowly and turned to scamper up the stairs, but not before throwing Dumbledore a last glance of intense interest.

Footfalls could be heard from the hallway to the left, and a tall man wearing dark-framed glasses with salt-and-pepper hair appeared in the entrance hall, looking slightly concerned. He glanced from the stranger in his house to his wife, who looked on the verge of tears, then back again to the stranger. Understanding dawned on Richard Granger, and he turned quite as pale as his wife.

"He wants t-to chat." Mrs. Granger said the last words almost through a sob.

Wordlessly, Dumbledore followed the couple into the sitting room. The Grangers lowered themselves gingerly onto the sofa, while Dumbledore moved to sit on the smaller loveseat across from the coffee table.

Mrs. Granger had barely touched the sofa when she sprang back up suddenly and exclaimed, "I'll get us tea", and skittered away into the adjoining kitchen.

Her husband stayed sitting, making no sound, but merely gripped his knees and stared at the carpet. The tension in the room was palpable. Finally, he said slowly, "You – you are the Albus Dumbledore who left Hermione on our doorstep five years ago? Who left us the letter?"

"Yes." Dumbledore replied.

"And – and are you here… to take her back today?"

"No."

But Mr. Granger did not any more relieved.

Mrs. Granger returned at that moment, carrying a tray with a teapot and three cups of white china. Her hands were shaking badly as she set them down on the coffee table, so that the entire tray rattled loudly. She attempted to pick up the pot to pour the tea, but had to quickly set it down again when it became apparent that she was shaking too badly to do the job.

"Let me," Dumbledore interjected smoothly, and took the pot from her trembling hands, pouring three cups for them.

He took a sip from his own cup, but was the only one. Neither Granger showed any acknowledgement of the steaming cups sitting in front of them.

Dumbledore set his tea down carefully and began to speak.

"Mr. and Mrs. Granger. You are correct; I was the one who left Hermione on your doorstep five years ago. I am… her great-great uncle. Her great-grandfather was my brother, you see. At the time, I was unable to care for her, and so I left her with people who I knew would cherish and love her as their own daughter – yourselves. I can see that I was correct in that assumption."

"There is something more important I must share with you today, however. I want to be clear that I am not here to take Hermione away or remove her from your care. I am here to tell you that Hermione… is a witch. She has magical abilities. As do I. There is a magical world beyond your knowledge, here, in Britain, to which she and I belong."

The Grangers stared.

"It is hard for you to believe, I'm sure. I have visited many families whose children are magical and often it is very hard for the parents to fully comprehend the situation. But please, let me demonstrate." He pulled out his wand from the inside pocket of his coat. The couple flinched backwards.

"Is that a weapon? What are you doing?" Richard Granger exclaimed, alarmed, flinging an arm across his wife in a feeble attempt to protect her.

"No, it is not a weapon. It is a wand, the instrument through which wizards perform magic. See here." He pointed it at their fireplace and bright orange flames danced to life. Mrs. Granger gasped and flung herself backwards away from the fire, while Mr. Granger jerked involuntarily.

Dumbledore pretended not to notice their reactions, and proceeded to conjure a flock of small canaries and sent them flying over their heads and throughout the house. Finally, he turned his wand towards the teapot and levitated it to pour himself some more tea.

"Hermione can do that." Mrs. Granger blurted out suddenly, her eyes glued to the floating teapot, then clapped a hand over her mouth looking horrified at her outburst.

Dumbledore looked at her carefully over his half-moon glasses. "Yes… I wouldn't be surprised. I expect her magic is very well defined for her age. What else can she do?"

Mrs. Granger lowered her hand from her face slowly, and glanced fearfully at her husband. He cleared his throat nervously, still very pale, and whispered, "She… ah – she can lift things without touching them – books and flowers and such. And she can protect herself, and others – she once pushed our entire car out of the way of an oncoming truck. And sometimes it's as though… as though she can read p-people's... minds." He said the last word nearly soundlessly, looking as if his worst nightmares had come true.

Mrs. Granger had begun to cry silently.

"You musn't think there is anything to be frightened of here. What Hermione can do is not unnatural. She's a very special girl, even for a witch. Her magical ability is great, and she comes from a strong lineage."

"Her-her _real _parents… they're like you, then, are they? Wizards?" Richard choked out the last word.

Dumbledore nodded.

Mrs. Granger sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She seemed to compose herself slightly at the mention of Hermione's talents. "Our Hermione is very gifted. She's in the top of her class at her kindergarten and she has the reading ability of a much older child." She said defensively but with a distinct note of pride.

Dumbledore gave her a wan smile. "Yes, I have no doubt of that. When she reaches the age of eleven, she will enter into a magical school here in Britain, called Hogwarts, a boarding school. All magical children attend Hogwarts from the ages of eleven through seventeen, to receive magical training and knowledge of our world. I am its headmaster, in fact. But until then, she will continue attending school here, with you."

"And what are your intentions towards Hermione, right now, then? She's only four. Why are you here today to tell us this?" Richard asked, on-edge.

"It is because I would like to know her." Dumbledore said tentatively. "She is the only family I have. And I would like to help her as a teacher, to show her how to control her magic."

He continued, "Of course Hermione would continue to live with you, you are her parents and she is your daughter. Nothing will change that. I would not want it any other way. I only ask… to meet with her, to spend some time to get to know her. As Hogwarts Headmaster, I would be away for most of the year, but I would like to see her every once in awhile, if you will allow it." He finished, looking carefully at the couple seated across from him.

Mrs. Granger continued to sniff softly, but after a pause, murmured, "I suppose that wouldn't be unreasonable…" but her husband interjected quickly. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously at Dumbledore.

"And how are we supposed to know you're telling the truth here, about you being Hermione's uncle and all? The magic stuff… I suppose there's no way for us to deny there is some semblance of truth in that. But if you think we're just going to let our precious little girl go traipsing off with some 'magical' stranger without verifying his identity, you've got another thing coming to you, _sir._"

Dumbledore, who had nearly sighed aloud with relief at Mrs. Granger's acquiescence, felt a weight sink into this stomach. This man Richard Granger was unfortunately sharp.

The fact of the matter was, he _couldn't _prove his relation to Hermione. In any other situation, he could veritably rely on his reputation to pass any such claim off as truth – few people in the magical community would ever think to doubt Albus Dumbledore's word over something so serious. But these muggles had no such friendly feeling for him. He could make up a fake family tree and attempt to pass it off, but to do so would take time and the hesitation in itself would be suspicious. On the other hand, a vague answer would make it seem as if he was trying to brush the question off, and he could tell that Hermione's father would not be satisfied with a half-arsed answer where his daughter was concerned.

Or… well. He still had his wand in his hand.

Mr. Granger was still looking at him with mild antagonism, waiting for his response. Firmly shoving away the guilt that was attempting to creep over him, Dumbledore cast a silent Confundus charm in the direction of the couple across from him. Both of them immediately adopted a look of serene confusion.

"Hermione is my great-great niece, and I am her great-great uncle, and that is the truth of the matter. The details are unimportant." He declared.

The Grangers seemed to shake themselves out of the stupor are blinked at him a few times, as if unsure of where they were. Dumbledore coughed lightly.

Richard Granger rubbed his head slightly, and turned to him and said slowly, "Well… I suppose that will be good enough for us then."

"Excellent. Could I meet her, today?"

"I… I think that would be acceptable." Mrs. Granger said hesitantly.

"With supervision." Mr. Granger interrupted quickly.

"Of course." Dumbledore replied smoothly, standing up and smoothing down his coat. "Do you mind if we walk outside? It's a beautiful day out."

Ten minutes later, Dumbledore found himself strolling down the sidewalk of the Grangers' neighborhood next to a small Hermione Granger, while her father trailed a few steps behind them watching them carefully. Hermione had not said anything when her mother had brought her back downstairs, informing her that she was to go on a walk with this tall gentleman with the long grey beard. The little girl didn't seem wary of Dumbledore like her parents had been; merely interested.

They walked in companionable silence for a time. From the corner of his eyes, he could see her curls bouncing lightly, reflecting the sun, as she hurried along next to him trying match his longer strides. A few blocks down, they came to a public park. It had a swing set and slides surrounded by a semi-circle of stone tables with chessboards etched onto the tops, and matching stone seats. Tall leafy oaks nestled the park in the bright orange and reds of the autumn shades. It was still early in the season; already-fallen leaves swirled about their feet, but sunlight still dappled in through the half-stripped branches of the trees.

The child automatically steered towards one of the stone tables and scrambled onto the seat, looking at him expectantly. He obliged and sat down across from her, while her hovering father took a seat at the table next to them, giving them only as much space and privacy as he felt comfortable with.

"I think I should introduce myself again – I am Albus Dumbledore."

"My name's Hermione Granger," she replied politely, and stretched a small hand across the stone table for him to shake. He grasped her proferred hand lightly.

It was just as it had been on the night she had been born. Her magic connected with his own, but the connection was more nuanced now. It didn't barrel him over like it had once; instead, he could feel it probing him curiously.

Hermione let out a small yelp, looking equally excited and scared. "You have it too!" she exclaimed and snatched her hand back, eyes wide in amazement.

"Yes. What you mean is magic. You and I both have magic, and our magic is recognizing it's existence in each other." He told her patiently, in words he hoped a four year old would be able to comprehend.

To himself, however, he was slightly dumbfounded – at merely four, she could already feel the magical presence in others? Perhaps it was because their magics had met before. This was something he would have to discover further…

"Can I… try again?" Hermione asked tentatively. He lay his open hands on the table between them, palms facing up, in permission.

Hesitating slightly, she put both her hands into his this time, palms touching, and reached her magic out again.

He projected familiarity and friendliness and affection out through his magic to see if she would receive them. He gave a satisfied smile when he saw her relax visibly as she took in his offered message.

He squeezed her tiny hands briefly, so that she would look up at him. "Hermione… I would like to tell you something. It is what I told your parents earlier, in the house. I… am your relative. Your great-great uncle."

She continued to look at him with her big eyes and did not seem nonplussed at his declaration of newfound family; rather, her response was: "Is that why we can both do magic?"

"Yes, and no. There are many other people out there who can do magic, but your magic does come from your family, yes."

She finally pulled her hands back from his and tucked them into her lap, staring at them and chewing her bottom lip. Dumbledore had the feeling she was thinking about something serious – her face was so expressive, it was almost like a window into her heart.

"No one else I know can do things like I can." She said finally, and there was a definite note of worry and self-consciousness there. "Am I strange?"

"No, child. You mustn't ever think that. You're a very special girl. And besides, I can do magic too, can't I? Am I strange?" He gave her a conspiratorial wink and stroked his mustache.

She giggled, and he saw her hand pick up a small yellow leaf and hold it up at eye level. Suddenly, the leaf floated up out of her hand of it's own accord, came closer toward his long nose, and tickled it.

He chuckled with her and levitated the leaf back into the little girl's hands, all the while thinking to himself:

_I made the right decision._

* * *

July 30, 1990

The girl's eyes fluttered open and stared unseeingly for a few long seconds at the painted constellations of her bedroom ceiling. There were the familiar shapes of Orion and Ursa Minor winking down at her, illuminated by the few rays of sun that had managed to peep out from behind the window curtains. She rubbed her eyes out of tiredness, then pulled herself out of bed and stood up to tidy the covers.

Leaning over the pillows, she reached over to pick up the book that had been laying face down amidst the sheets. She'd fallen asleep reading it the night before – "_Hogwarts, a History_". It was a worn and battered old copy, a gift, from someone special. She patted the blankets near where it had lain and pulled out the long, red feather that had been buried somewhere underneath it, slipping it into the book to mark her page. It was a phoenix feather, another small token from the same dear friend who had given her the book the feather was currently nestled in.

Satisfied with the state of the bed, she changed out of her pajamas and into a clean sundress and entered the small adjoining bathroom.

Looking into the bathroom mirror, Hermione Granger gazed at her own reflection critically. A thin girl with unmanageable brown curly hair stared at back her. She looked small for her age, even at nine years old. She had a fair complexion and her face was delicately boned, but it angled into a strong chin, which hinted at a stubbornness and ability to fend for herself. However, it was contrasted by the slenderness of her face, which made her already large eyes look even larger in comparison, so that there was a permanent and unshakeable air of innocence about her. Coupled with a small mouth, she looked unnaturally serious for a child of not even ten. Her mum often wheedled at her to smile more because "Your smile just lights up your face, sweetie", or so her mother claimed, but it had fallen on rather deaf ears.

She scrutinized herself more carefully. Her hair was sticking up slightly on the side again; she tugged at it unhelpfully. She vehemently disliked her hair. It wasn't that she was vain; it was just so _difficult,_ and she was often annoyed at the time it took to tame the wayward hair in the morning, which could be spent doing something far more productive. Leaning in even closer to the mirror, she saw the shadow of dark smudges under her eyes, undoubtedly because she had stayed up late reading under the bedcovers again. Her mum was going to have something to say about that too, she just knew it.

She sighed and resigned herself to accepting the lecture that was inevitably going to be dosed out. Squeezing a healthy dose of toothpaste onto her red toothbrush, she started brushing her teeth, glancing up to the clock hanging on the wall out of habit. Two minutes per brush. Her parents the dentists had instilled in her nothing if not a diligent regimen for dental care.

As she brushed, she let her mind wander. Tomorrow was her birthday, she was going to be ten... but today was more exciting. Uncle Albus was visiting again today.

She had received his owl a few days ago, saying he would be coming to Victoria Lane this morning. It has been several weeks since she had last seen him, despite it being the summer holiday when he usually came most often. She supposed he was busy preparing Hogwarts for the new school year, and couldn't help but feel a small resentment towards the fact that Hogwarts always took so much of his time.

His visiting schedule with her revolved around the school holidays at Hogwarts, of course. He came often during summer break, a few times during the Christmas hols, and almost always every Easter. It was as often as he could, but it always felt to her to not be often enough. Being headmaster of the only magical school in Britain must have been a very busy job; she couldn't fault him for that. But every so often, he would turn up anyways, unexpectedly, on days she knew Hogwarts was still in session, and she would feel extra happy that he'd thought to take the time for her.

She couldn't lie to herself, however, she thought, sighing miserably – she wasn't resentful that Uncle Albus didn't visit her more often, she was really just desperate to be _at_ Hogwarts, where he and magic and other wizards and witches existed.

It seemed another world away, most days.

Hermione finished brushing and rinsed. She made a poor attempt of smoothing her hair with a brush, but, as usual, gave up trying for anything more than passable, and made her way down the stairs to the kitchen where her mother was cooking breakfast.

"Morning, sweetie. Sausage and eggs for you?"

"Thanks, mum." She replied as she pulled a chair out for herself at the kitchen table.

Her mother turned around from the stove holding a steaming pan and scooped scrambled eggs and a handful of sausage links onto the plate in front of her.

"There you are, dear – _Oh my goodness, Hermione, look at your face! _What did you do to yourself?" she shrieked, almost sending sausage links flying through the air.

Ah, there it was, just as expected.

"Nothing, mum. I was just reading."

"No more late night reading for you, young lady, and that's my final word on the matter. Your Uncle Albus is going to have a kitten when he sees you looking like that!"

"I hardly think he'll notice, mum." She intoned.

But that wasn't true either; Uncle Albus had the sharpest eyes of anyone she'd ever met. The man just _knew _things.

As if on cue, the doorbell sounded from the entrance hall, and she leapt out of her chair with a quick "I'll get it!"

She pulled open the front door, and there he stood, looking the same as he always did. Tall and thin and wearing robes of a deep maroon, his long white beard and hair hanging down to just above his usual gold belt buckle. Wise, ageless, eyes behind crystal half-moon glasses and a faint smile.

"Hello, Uncle Albus." She grinned.

He gave her a quick once-over and stated, without preamble. "You look pale. Are you sleeping alright?"

"No she isn't, and would you _please _tell her she has to stop reading at night, goodness knows she listens to you more than she does me." Her mum had just come bustling out of the kitchen in full steam.

Uncle Albus replied smoothly, "Of course, Mrs. Granger. I will surely give her a stern talking to about that." but gave Hermione a small wink all the same.

"Shall we take a walk?" He held the front door open. It was a silly question; they always took a walk when he came to visit, usually to the same neighborhood park down the block where they had first gone, years ago, although sometimes they ventured as far as the greenbelt forest a mile away. So much so that Hermione closely attributed his visits and their discussions about magic to fresh air and trees.

Her mum had pulled her light jacket out from the coat closet and was tucking it over Hermione's shoulders, fussing all the while. "It could get chilly out, dear, I hear there's may be light showers later…" She patted Hermione's shoulders a few more times, then, smiling at the two of them, said, "Well, I'll just leave the pair of you to it, then," and bustled back to the kitchen to rescue her burning eggs.

Uncle Albus kneeled down in front of her and adjusted the buttons on her jacket. "Why don't we go somewhere new today, hm? Spice things up a bit."

Hermione's eyes brightened. "Really? Where?" she asked, excitement bubbling up inside her. Adventures with Uncle Albus were bound to be a treat.

"You shall soon find out, my dear. But we'll have to go via side-along Apparition, so hold on tight. It's rather uncomfortable the first time." He bent down slightly at the waist so he could reach her, and offered her his arm.

Hermione knew Apparition was when a wizard disappeared from one place and reappeared in another place instantaneously. From what she had read, it was a commonplace bit of magic, and extremely handy, but required intense concentration and control which was why usually only adult wizards could do it. She was surprised Uncle Albus would offer to take her via side-along; he usually avoided performing any major feats of magic around her, preferring instead to observe her and her own magic. Perhaps he had something special planned for today.

She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and heard him mutter, "Ready? Here we go." And then suddenly it was pitch black and she felt as if she was being squeezed from all sides though she could see nothing, the pressure was pushing at her body from above, below, in front… it was like being compressed through a tube.

It was a most bizarre sensation. She squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her grip on Uncle Albus's elbow.

Then, just as suddenly, the feeling was gone, and she stumbled slightly as her feet the ground. They had appeared in a sort of dingy side alley of a city. The loud honking of cars and buses could be heard in cacophony, even as a giant two-decker bus sped past the entrance to the alley at high speed. A loud meow cut the air as a fat tabby leapt off a large trash bin that stood nearby, clearly startled at their abrupt materialization. It streaked away down the alley, still yowling.

"Here we are. Muggle London." Uncle Albus declared, brushing imaginary dust off his robes. Turning conspiratorially towards her, he raised his wand and tapped his chin. "We'll need disguises," he said matter-of-factly and tapped himself twice on the head with this wand.

The long grey beard and hair was instantly replaced with shorter, brown hair with streaks of white. A newsboy cap appeared on top of the shorn hair, and the long maroon robes had disappeared to make way for khakis, a mustard button-down shirt, and a wrinkly brown sweater vest.

She blinked.

The changes were slight, but it was an alarming transformation all the same. The old man now standing stooped before her, curved walking stick in hand, looked the very image of the quintessential neighborly grandfather. She doubted even her father, as keen-eyed he was, would even be able to recognize the man before her for his true identity. But she would always be able to recognize those half-moon glasses and the ever-twinkling cerulean eyes, which remained the same despite the disguise.

"There we are, that should do just fine. Come now." He said, reaching a hand out for hers, and leading the way out of the alley into the busy London street.

"What about me? Don't I get a disguise?" She asked dismayed.

"You look just perfect the way you are, my dear."

"You sound like my mum." She grumbled.

"And a mother's word is never wrong." He said mildly, but, all the same, he snatched a navy colored baseball cap from an unsuspecting vendor stall as they breezed by.

He paused in his step and plopped the cap onto her head. It was too large, and the brim fell over her eyes. She pulled it back up so she could look at him, her expression displeased. "That's all I get? A hat?"

"That's all you need, my dear."

She snatched the cap off her head to peer at the logo on the front. It was blue lion on a circular field of white, with red flowers around it. Gold letters embroidered around the circle read "Chelsea Football Club."

"I don't even like football. " She complained to herself as she jammed it back onto her hair, but it wasn't a serious complaint.

They fell into step down the sidewalk lining the busy street, her hand tucked in the crook of Uncle Albus's elbow as he shuffled along at a much slower pace than his usual long strides, what with the new cane and stooped figure. It was a beautiful Saturday morning and very sunny, a welcome deviation from the usual cloudy grey and drizzling rain that hovered over the city. Londoners had seized this opportunity and come outdoors in hordes to take advantage of the sun and skies. She could see parents pushing strollers towards the public park, young people going about the town, shopping bags in tow, and tourists with large cameras pointing at the sights and stopping intermittently to check their maps.

"Did you read the book I gave you last time? _'The Bloodlines of Magical Wizardry'._" Uncle Albus asked mildly.

"Mh hm!"

"And what did you learn?"

"I learned… that there are different kinds of people who can do magic in the world. That magic goes back years and years all the way to Merlin and before him too, even before Britain had a king. And that there are people called purebloods, which means they come from families that are all magical and very old. Pureblood families are supposed to have really strong magic, aren't they Uncle, because they've been around so long?"

"Yes, and no. It depends." He replied noncommittally.

"Yes," she repeated, contemplating his words, "I suppose it does. Because there are also people who come from pureblood families who can't do magic at all. I think they are called squids." She made a funny face, stumbling slightly open the unfamiliar word.

Uncle Albus chuckled. "It's squibs, my dear."

"Yes, that's what I meant." She repeated intently. "And then there are the opposite. Some people come from non-magic families who can do magic. But their parents are muggles."

Suddenly puzzled, she said. "But Uncle, does that mean that they wouldn't _know _about magic, even if they could do it? No one in their family would know it existed at all?"

Uncle Albus gave a hum of assent.

"So they just… don't find out they're a witch or wizard unless someone tells them? What if they _never _find out?"

"Oh, they find out, some way or another. In Britain and most other countries, the wizarding schools make sure magical children are brought in to be educated properly."

They had reached a small cheery outdoor café called "Serendipity", and Uncle Albus veered them towards one of the tables shaded by a pink striped umbrella. He sat down on the rickety metal chair and tapped the opposite seat with his cane, indicating for her to do the same. She sat.

A short young woman sporting a jaunty ponytail immediately appeared at their tableside and gave Hermione a dazzling white smile.

"What will you be having today, hons?"

"Two cream sodas, please." Uncle Albus wheezed in character. The waitress waltzed off with a melodious "Right away!"

Hermione was eager to continue their conversation; she had many questions related to '_The Bloodlines of Magical Wizardry', _for it had been the most difficult and fascinating book Uncle Albus had yet given her.

She launched right back into it. "How does someone become a witch or wizard? Is it something in their blood? We're learning about DNA at school in science class. It something that babies get from each of their parents when they're born, that's how you get your black hair or blonde hair or blue eyes. It's in your blood and your body."

"Yes. Magic is usually something that is passed down in the blood, and many people used to think that it was the _only_ way magic could be transferred. But now we know that magic is very fickle. Sometimes it will show up in unexpected places and it is in those cases that witches and wizards are born in the muggle world. But even though their parents weren't magical, it doesn't necessarily mean that muggle-borns are any less magical than anybody else. In fact, it's been shown that new blood enhances magical ability when it is introduced to older bloodlines."

He heaved a sigh. "The critical point here is that magic is magic no matter who has it or how they got it. And it's something very special. Always remember that, Hermione."

"Yes, Uncle."

A pause.

"Are you a pureblood, Uncle?"

"No... I am not. I am a half-blood. My father came from a pureblood family, but my mother was a muggleborn witch."

Their waitress returned at that moment holding two large green glass bottles of cream soda and set them down in front of them, before pulling out a small tool from inside her apron and pulling off the bottle caps with one smooth, practiced motion.

"Enjoy!" She flashed her shiny smile at Hermione once again and sauntered off to help the adjacent table. Hermione watched her go, before turning back to Uncle Albus.

"What's your family like?" Hermione asked suddenly.

"Hmm. Well, you are my family, of course." He smiled down at her, light blue eyes twinkling in the sun. He gave her hand a light squeeze.

"Yes, but who else?" She replied with an edge of impatience.

He contemplated his answer. "Why, as Headmaster, I should say everyone at Hogwarts is my family."

She looked at him intently over the top of her bottle, but didn't press the point. He had a penchant for giving noncommittal answers like these at times, and she had learned it was his pleasant way of not giving her the answer he knew she was looking for. Not lying, but merely skirting the truth, if you would; a subtle message to let it go. She moved on to the next thought pressing down on her.

She hesitated. "Uncle… Am I one of those witches who has magic but comes from the muggle world?"

He seemed to be choosing his next words carefully. "No… Not exactly. You were - are - raised in the muggle world, but you are not a muggle born." He paused. "You are a half blood, too."

Hermione remained very quiet. She didn't immediately respond to Uncle Albus's answer, but instead took a swig of her soda. It was cold and sweet and fizzy. She took another gulp. She had heard his words… And knew where the line of conversation was headed, but was waiting for him to continue, to say it aloud.

"Hermione, your parents – the people who you know as your parents, Richard and Nancy Granger – they are not your biological parents. They adopted you." He looked very sad. "Are you surprised?" he asked softly.

She didn't say anything for a few seconds. She had developed a habit of chewing her bottom lip when she was thinking hard, and she did so now, gazing across the street to where some other children were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.

She turned back to him finally.

"No… no I'm not surprised. I think I knew." Her face looked troubled and took a deep breath before continuing. "I-I don't know how to say it, Uncle. But I think I _felt _that they were not my real parents because my magic didn't – " She sighed in frustration, unable to find the right words.

"Your magic didn't feel a connection." He finished for her.

"Yes… yes that's what I meant." She was relieved to finally get the words and the gnawing worry off her chest.

"Are you upset?"

"No. I know they still love me. And I love them. They're still my mum and dad. And I know other kids at school who are adopted, and they're happy… I'm happy too."

She sighed and wondered whether she should say what she wanted to say next. The last thing she wanted to do was complain, but it was Uncle Albus, surely he'd understand… "They just… Don't _know _about the magical world. I can't talk to them about it. That's the only thing I wish was different."

"Things will be different when you enter Hogwarts. There you will meet boys and girls your own age, other students, who you will befriend. And you will all be learning magic together."

She kept her eyes down and picked up the bottle cap from the table where it had fell after being pried off by the waitress. She spun it around on the table between her thumb and forefinger, then slowly let go. It didn't fall, but continued to spin on its own at the same speed.

"Uncle, I…"

She open her mouth, hesitated and quickly closed it again. She wanted to ask, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

"Do you know why I was adopted? Or who my real parents are? Do you know why… They didn't want me?"

She suddenly felt Dumbledore's hand reach over and grip her own very tightly. The bottle cap fell over the table. Surprised, she looked up into his face. His eyes were overly bright, and very intense. He looked very serious in that moment.

"Hermione… You should never think that. Your parents loved you very much and they would have done anything to raise you themselves. But they couldn't, you see, because they were in a war. All of us, the entire Wizarding world, was in a war. It was a very dangerous time for many people, including your parents. They gave their lives in that war, to protect our ideals. They were very brave. And after that…it was safer for you to be adopted and live in the muggle world. I think you know that I cannot tell you who your parents are, not right now. There are dangerous things still happening even now, after the war, that none of us fully understand. All that is crucial now is to make sure you are safe and healthy. There are many important things you need to do in the future."

His grip became tighter still. "Do you understand?"

She nodded slowly but continued to bite her lip.

"Do you trust me?" He asked, still looking at her intently.

Yes," she said immediately. "I trust you."

"Good girl," he murmured as he leaned back in his chair and let go of both her gaze and hands. "Now why don't we move on to some Occlumency practice. Did you work on imagining a barrier for your mind?"

She nodded, her mind still processing rapidly from their conversation, but she felt a slight relief in moving onto a safer topic.

"Good. Let's start with a game, hm? I want you to think of a word in your head. I'm going to look into your mind and try to discover what it is, but you musn't let me. Your goal is to keep the word a secret. Yes?"

She nodded again. They'd played variations of this game many times in the past few years. Always some variation of "hide and seek", but in their minds. Sometimes, they played the opposite and she would have to try to project an idea, or a picture, or a word in her mind for him to see.

In all, it was very hard work. Much harder than any homework she had to do in school. Sometimes, if she concentrated too hard, she would end up with a headache and then Uncle Albus took pity on her and bought her ice cream to make her feel better.

"Are you ready?"

She took a deep breath and sifted through her mind for a word. A hard one…their earlier conversation about blood and science still fresh in her mind, she thought of "helix".

In her mind's eye, Hermione visualized the word hanging in the air, then attempted to visualize it disappearing by pulling it back closer within herself, as she raised the image of a stone wall in its place instead.

"I'm ready."

Uncle Albus's eyes behind his half moon glasses narrowed ever so slightly as he moved his gaze to hold hers. Suddenly and acutely she felt his minds presence within her own, nudging the barriers she had erected with difficulty. It was a soft pressure, not painful or uncomfortable, necessarily, but simply a foreign presence.

She tried to keep the mental wall up against the increasing pressure, but she felt his mind narrow in on a crack in the defenses – an area of weakness – and suddenly Uncle Albus's consciousness flowed into her mind even as she tried to patch up the wall. "Helix" rose back to her mind's forefront, unbidden. Satisfied with the discovery, the other mind withdrew from her own.

"Good. That was very good. But this time, try imagining a stronger barrier. And when you channel your energy, focus on strengthening the barrier where you feel the other person is trying to enter, instead of attempting to keep everything equally protected. The mind is a vast expanse. Be smart about where you put your energy."

"Yes, Uncle."

"Now, let's try again."

"Yes, Uncle", she replied dutifully. Sitting up a little straighter she clenched her fists, strengthened her resolve, and tried very hard to imagine in her mind's eye, tall, towering gates, wrought iron and strong; closed, protective. Then, she braced herself and moved her gaze up to look into the old man's eyes.

* * *

Later that night, Hermione was back in bed, her head still slightly abuzz from the magical effort she had expended in her afternoon lesson with Uncle Albus. The bedroom was dark but the moonlight from the window faintly illuminated the fresh stack of books on her nightstand. She'd been given new reading assignments for the intervening time before their next meeting. They were thick, serious looking volumes with equally serious sounding titles – among them, _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_.

Some would probably say this was heavy reading for a nine year old, but Hermione Granger devoured the books Uncle Albus left her with speed and anticipation, without fail. Apart from his visits – with their long walks and talks and lessons – these books were the only other connection she had to him and the wizarding world. She hungered to find out more, to reach out and grasp whatever was available to her to feel like she belonged to that world. She was not fully _in _the wizarding world, but an innate part of her strived for it all the time. It made it so she could neither fully be in that world, nor the muggle world of her current environs.

Yes… that little problem about not belonging. It nagged at her – _had _nagged at her for years, really – like a bad habit she somehow just couldn't shake off. No doubt exacerbated now, by the news she'd received today about being adopted, though admittedly it was true that that particular fact hadn't come as much of a surprise. No, she had definitely had an inkling – more, to be honest – before now about the legitimacy of her blood relationship with her parents. She loved them dearly, but they really, really were just terrible at hiding things.

And as well...she had the feeling that Uncle Albus was not, in fact, a blood relative at all either.

She remembered being six years of age and asking her parents to tell her _how exactly _she and Uncle Albus were related. They had been the definition of unhelpful.

When she had posed her question, a funny far-off look had come into their eyes, giving them a blank expression very unlike their usually intelligent gazes.

"He's your great-great uncle, sweetie." Her dad had said.

"Yes, but _how _is he my great-great uncle? Who was my great-great grandfather, then, his brother?"

"Who? Well… I'm sure he was a fine chap." He'd mused. "Yes, he must have been a fine chap, indeed. Why, I'm sure I would have liked to have had a brandy with him."

Then abruptly his face had alighted with interest and he had gone off, calling to her mum, "Say Nancy, where _is _our brandy, by the way?"

She gave up trying her parents after that. It had been most infuriating.

She had hesitated in asking Uncle Albus himself; part of her was a little scared to do it, not because she thought he would become angry, but for the reason that she feared he would not want to tell her. But on one of his visits, she finally gathered up her nerve and asked him directly. She'd even taken the initiative to draw a family tree for added visualization – "Uncle Albus" at the top – and she – "Hermione" at the bottom, with several blanks in the middle.

She'd waved the paper in front of his beard, and given him a look of deepest dissatisfaction.

"Uncle Albus, why won't you tell me?"

But he had gently taken the parchment from her and pocketed it, took her small child's hands into his own, and, smiling gently down at her, simply said, "Family is family, dear Hermione."

She had looked skeptical, or as much as a six year old could. But his blue eyes, always the color of cloudless skies, remained ever so serene. "The how is not important. It is simply its existence that we must celebrate." he had said.

Uncle Albus, ever the cryptic.

Hermione was smart enough to understand the underlying message behind his words, however. He was skirting around the subject again, which meant he hadn't wanted to provide a real answer to her question. But his lack of direct response had, in and of itself, spoken volumes.

After that meeting, she had spent several withdrawn days thinking things through, but had eventually come to the conclusion that, as he was often wont to be, Uncle Albus had been right. It didn't matter very much, really, how they were related, if even at all. The how wasn't as important as knowing that he was there for her, and would continue to be there for the foreseeable future.

After that, she hadn't asked him about it again, and he hadn't brought it up.

It was almost as if they'd reached some kind of unspoken, mutual understanding.

Some things didn't need to be said aloud, she supposed.

But, even so… despite how very much she loved her parents and Uncle Albus, true relations or not, it would have been nice to have someone she could really, truly call her own. Just one person with whom she could share a bond that was forged in something she could rely on to be more unbreakable.

She curled deeper into her blankets, and as she teetered on the edge of sleep, Hermione Granger felt an emotion she was all too familiar with - a sudden, incredible loneliness.

* * *

Halfway across the country, in a small family house on a street called Privet Drive, another lonely nine-year-old lay on his back in a dingy cupboard. One arm behind his head, the other arm raised up, in front of him, tapping the small metal chain that hung down from the single bare light bulb. It swung to and fro with his taps and the boy's eyes – a deep shade of forest green – followed the movement of the tip of the chain back and forth like a swinging gong of a grandfather clock.

The single bulb illuminated a strange little room, if it could be called such a thing. It was small, and cramped, and had tiered shelves built into one side of the wall, the side where the boy's head was closest. An odd and jumbled assortment of items littered the shelves – a pile of notebooks and snub-nosed wooden pencils were scattered on the top of one. On another, an old textbook – _Maths for the Primary Student, Volume II_ – lay spine open on top of pile of broken action figurines and a deck of creased playing cards. From the top of that wall, the ceiling then slanted down at an alarming angle so that the room looked almost triangular. It reminded forcefully of the kind of coat closets people sometimes had under their staircases.

On the floor beside the boy's left ear, rested a grubby little digital clock, its outer layer of red paint flaking off of the cheap plastic. The neon numbers read 11:59 PM. The boy stopped tapping the chain for a second to turn his head and peer at the numbers. Then he straightened his head to stare at the ceiling once more, brought both arms up under his head and sighed.

It was almost his birthday. He would be ten. Ten! Double digits. Almost an adult, he thought wistfully. He closed his eyes and let his imagination conjure up a giant, frosted three-layer cake with an ice cream filling. It was a rich chocolate cake and it had creamy buttercream frosting slathered all over it, and extra on top in decorative swirls.

He loved frosting.

The boy grinned broadly. Mhh… all for him.

The small alarm clock emitted a high-pitched beep to signal the turning of midnight. He opened his eyes slowly and blinked to readjust to the brightness of the bulb still swinging lightly above him. It illuminated, just briefly in its to and fro path, a thin scar hidden underneath his dark and messy hair. The shape was… very strange indeed. A lightning bolt.

The boy smacked the top of the alarm clock to stop the beeping, then began to sing softly under his breath: "Happy birthday to you…Happy birthday to you…" His eyes brightened a little as he came to the next verse: "Happy birthday...dear _Harry_. Happy birthday to you..."

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. Eyes still shut tight, he drew a deep breath and blew out the imaginary candles.

* * *

***A/N***

Thank you to an insightful reviewer who pointed out that Dumbledore is in fact a half-blood, not a pureblood. Not sure how I overlooked that, but it means I need to do my research a bit better, it seems! The chapter has since been changed reflect his accurate half-blood status.


	5. Chapter 5 - Forewarnings

July 31, 1991

Hermione sat fidgeting with excitement, her fingers drumming a beat on the etched lines of the chess board. It was a warm summer's evening, and they were sitting at their usual stone table in the park down the street from her house. Uncle Albus was holding a thick envelope in his hands, his eyes alight with amusement.

"Happy birthday, Hermione." He passed the envelope to her and she took it and turned it in her hands, reveling in the moment that was finally here.

The envelope was constructed of a thick, heavy yellow parchment. Thin green ink on the front read, "Hermione J. Granger, 10 Victoria Lane, Kempston West, Bedfordshire, England" and the back was stamped with the Hogwarts logo. She recognized it from the cover of _Hogwarts, A History_: Four quadrants with a lion, badger, eagle, and snake, surrounding a large black letter 'H'.

Slowly and precisely, she opened the flap and pulled out two pieces of paper. A gold embossed ticket fell out onto her lap:

_Passage for One on the Hogwarts Express_

_September 1, 1991, 11 o'clock_

_Platform 9¾_

_King's Cross Station_

_London, England_

She put the ticket aside carefully and read the first sheaf of paper:

_ HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

_ Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE_

_ (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_ Dear Ms. Granger,_

_ We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_ Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_ Yours sincerely,_

_ Minerva McGonagall,_

_ Deputy Headmistress_

She arched her eyebrows as she finished reading the letter. "I didn't know you had an Order of Merlin, Uncle Albus." She glanced down the letter again. "First Class, no less," she said grinning.

He chuckled and merely unwrapped a lemon drop, popping it into his mouth and quite unperturbed that an eleven-year-old was poking fun at him. Hermione pulled out the second sheaf of parchment and saw it was the aforementioned list of equipment and books. She skimmed it quickly.

Looking up, she asked, "Can I really get all this in Diagon Alley?"

"Most certainly."

Though Hermione had never been to Diagon Alley before, she had heard Uncle Albus talk about it numerous times. From his description, she imagined it was something akin to the downtown of magical Britain.

She flipped back to the first paper, the welcome letter. "And… how do I send them my reply? I don't have an owl."

"Ah, yes, I've already prepared for that." He said lightly and pulled out his wand, waving it around their little table. Hermione glimpsed a shimmer in the air and felt the tingle of magic around her as the concealment charm fell into place.

He waved his wand again; there was a small 'pop' and suddenly she was getting a faceful of tickling feathers. She sputtered and leaned back quickly to see a brown-and-white speckled owl flapping its wings in front of her as it attempted to find it's footing on the stone table. It ruffled its feathers aggressively, then turned its black eyes toward her and hooted loudly, clearly peeved at being so ungracefully summoned.

Now that it had stopped flapping, Hermione could see that her original assessment of the coloring of its plumage was not quite accurate. Its body was white, but the speckling was not brown, but rather a dull, burnt orange. It had the flat, heart-shaped face and dark, doleful eyes very unique to its breed, the barn owl. It bobbed its head at her curiously.

Uncle Albus pulled a sheaf of parchment and a quill from inside his robes and pushed them toward Hermione. "There you are. This owl you can keep. My birthday gift to you."

"She's very pretty. Thank you." Hermione murmured as she raised a finger to pet the owl's fluffy wing.

It suddenly extended its neck and bit her outstretched finger.

"Ouch! What was that for?" she asked indignantly, pulling her finger back quickly and rubbing it.

"I think he's upset that you called him a girl," Uncle Albus replied, amused.

"Someone is very prideful," she muttered, as she pulled the parchment closer to her and picked up the quill to write her response:

_I, Hermione Jean Granger, do accept my position at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and will be in attendance on September the 1st, 1991._

"You should name him. Something fitting," Uncle Albus said as he picked up his wand again and conjured up a set of beautiful solid marble chess pieces, each the size of a fist.

Hermione folded the parchment with her reply and rolled it into a tight scroll. "Hm… perhaps 'Helios', then, since he's so proud. How do you like that?" she asked the owl.

He gave an impartial hoot but, to her great surprise, stuck out his leg to let her tie her letter to it. He seemed to be having a change of heart where she was concerned because a second later, he nipped her hand affectionately and flew off into the darkening sky. Hermione watched him fly over the trees surrounding the park and until his shape disappeared into the distance.

She turned back to see that Uncle Albus had already carefully arranged the marble chess pieces on the stone board between them – black pieces for himself, white pieces for her. He gestured with his hand for her to move first. She picked up a frontline pawn and moved it up two spaces.

Sometimes they just sat and played chess like this, enjoying the summer air and talking about something she had read, her muggle schoolwork, or, more often than not, nothing at all.

"Chess can teach you many things about a person," Uncle Albus had once told her wisely. "Sometimes that which they may not even know about themselves."

But today, she could tell by his mood that he had something much more serious on his mind, although he wasn't divulging his thoughts just yet.

"Have you thought of which House you would like to be sorted into?" he asked mildly as he moved his own pawn up to mirror hers.

"Gryffindor," Hermione replied automatically. "Like you."

A small smile came to Uncle Albus's face as he continued to survey the board. "I'm flattered, my dear, but don't be too quick to discount the other Houses. All of them have very redeeming qualities."

"Really, so you would have no preference for which House I am sorted into?" she asked, a note of doubt in her tone.

He attempted to keep a straight face as he replied, "As Headmaster, I play no favorites between Houses. I would be ecstatic whichever House you were to be sorted into. They would be lucky to have you."

"Even Slytherin?" she asked skeptically.

"Even Slytherin," he agreed.

But Hermione didn't quite believe him. She knew that Slytherin House was notorious for producing some of the darkest wizards of the past millennia, and in turn, the House had acquired a rather sinister reputation.

"I didn't think students could choose which House they're sorted into, anyway," she spoke up.

"No, that's not entirely true. The… ah, Sorter will let you have your say."

"Who is the Sorter, and how does he know?"

Uncle Albus winked at her even as he used his knight to take out her bishop with one fell motion.

"You'll have to find that out for yourself. You wouldn't want me to spoil all the good fun, now would you?"

They lapsed into a companionable silence as each turned to focus onto the game before them.

She never won at chess with Uncle Albus. Her game had improved significantly since he'd first taught her, but she just couldn't get the hang of it somehow. She had a habit of using most of her moves in attempts to save her various pieces from getting knocked out. But then every time without fail, even though she had more pieces on the board, Uncle Albus would use some discreet piece she'd overlooked to corner her king anyway.

"Checkmate," he said at that moment. Hermione sighed as she noticed, too late, that her king was wide open to his rook across the board.

"Good game, Uncle Albus."

He disappeared the chess pieces with faint flick of his wand. His expression had suddenly turned very somber, and he spoke the next words deliberately.

"This is the last time I can come see you before you arrive at Hogwarts, Hermione. I need to make preparations for the new year and then I have some business to attend to with an old friend, so I will be gone until the start of term."

She nodded her understanding, and he continued, looking, if possible, even more austere.

"I need you to listen to me closely. When you arrive at Hogwarts…there are certain things you must hide about yourself. I know it is a lot of ask, dear child. But you must take care to present a sort of facade to everyone you meet – your friends, your fellow students, even your teachers." He let out a deep breath.

"But I want you to be honest about your true parentage. Say you are a half blood who was adopted and raised by muggles." He hesitated. "There are… certain prejudices that some wizards in our society still hold, and I don't want you to come under any unnecessary hardship in that regard. If anyone probes you further about your biological parents, tell the truth, and say you don't know."

"Second… you must not reveal that we have a relationship, unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Publicizing a personal relationship with the Headmaster will bring you under far too close of scrutiny, which I would like to keep you from as much as possible. I may, in due time, disclose to a few trusted professors that you are my niece, but until then, you must keep that information close to your chest. And you will have to call me Professor Dumbledore or Headmaster, like the other students, in public at least. Although you don't know how much it will pain me to hear those words." He smiled sadly.

"And finally… what I ask next will be the hardest of all. You must mask your magic."

"How do you mean, Uncle?" she asked him, confused. Uncle Albus looked more serious than she had ever seen him.

"Everything you've learned, Hermione, everything I've taught you and everything we've practiced… they are things that other wizards your age, and some even much older, will not know how to do. It will cause apprehension if it becomes known how well developed your magic is at this tender age. Attempt to limit yourself in showing that you know any more than what you're being taught in classes. I do want you to excel at Hogwarts, but you must take care not to raise any alarms as to your actual skills. You must not show any wandless magic or nonverbal casting, and –"

He pinned her with a stare so intense she felt momentarily stunned.

"_Under absolutely no circumstances should you reveal your Occlumency and Legilimency abilities, do you understand me?"_

The fervor behind of his words scared her. He had never, in all their years together, taken this tone before.

"Yes, I understand, Uncle. But...will you tell me why?"

"There are many things you do not yet know, Hermione, about our world and our history. It will all be revealed in due time, I promise you," he said gently. "But my number one priority is to make sure you are safe. At Hogwarts, and in the greater wizarding world, you will be exposed to many people and many ideas, not all of whom and which will be friendly. I won't be able to insulate you and protect you like I have done."

"Never take anyone's words for granted, my dear child. You must think cautiously and evaluate every situation on your own apart from the undue influence of others. You are a smart girl, and I trust your judgment and your discretion."

"I don't want to scare you, Hermione, but I want you to be prepared. To know that there are forces and entities in the wizarding world that are not friendly to me, to you, or to our side. And that is the reason for the secrecy. Please understand."

There was concern etched in every line of his face, and he had never looked so grave. His eyes, darker than their usual sky blue, displayed an emotion that she couldn't quite place; it almost looked like… regret.

"Of course, Uncle," she said. "I'll remember everything you've taught me. I'm sure I'll be fine."

But Hermione wasn't sure if she was trying to reassure him, or herself.

* * *

The following Saturday after her birthday, Hermione and her parents decided to make the trip to Diagon Alley to pick up her school things. They drove into the city in her father's old Vauxhall, and pulled into a shady street in central London that looked old and uncared for, lined with rundown shops whose primes had passed decades ago.

"Sweetie, what's the name of this pub place that we're supposed to be looking for again?" her father asked distractedly. He was looking up and down the street and double-checking his map as if disbelieving that this nondescript little alley housed the entrance to something as fantastic as the world of magical Britain.

"It's called The Leaky Cauldron," said Hermione, herself scanning the rows of out-of-style shops across the street.

Uncle Albus – Professor Dumbledore, Hermione chided herself to remember that was what she had to call him now – had left her at their last meeting with a heavy money bag of wizard gold along with instructions for where to find the entrance to Diagon Alley. "It can be reached through a wizard pub called 'The Leaky Cauldron'. Once inside, find the barman named Tom and tell him you are a new Hogwarts student. He will show you the way."

She scanned the street up and down twice more before she finally saw it, squeezed between an indie bookstore and a 70's dress boutique.

It became obvious why she hadn't seen it earlier. It was hardly worth noticing; a grubby black door set into an equally grubby black wall. No lettering of any sort indicating a name, only a rusty little black metal sign in the shape of a cauldron over the door, hanging off one hinge.

She pointed it out to her parents, who had clearly not noticed its existence before then, and the three of them walked up to the grimy entrance and opened the door hesitantly. It creaked loudly and closed with a dull thud behind them.

Hermione had to blink a few times to adjust her eyes to the darkness of the interior. The pleasant word to describe it would be 'shabby', but a more apt description would be 'downright shady.' Thick unpolished slabs of wood doubled as tables and were surrounded by loosely cobbled wooden benches, all on a floor that she had to examine closely to recognize as stone because there was quite an impressive layer of dirt and dust over it. Fat tallow candles burned on each table, and there was a huge chandelier, dusty and cobwebbed, that hung from the center of the peaked ceiling. Even with the chandelier, the lighting was dim. She could see the pub was relatively empty, but a few small clusters of cloaked figures sat huddled at various tables along the wall muttering amongst themselves.

She felt her father let out of small cough behind her. He was standing behind her rigidly wearing an expression of ill-ease, while her mother stood nearly pressed again him, clutching her handbag tight to her chest as if fearing it would be snatched from her at any second; both of them looked as if they were suffering through severe discomfort.

Perhaps sensing the trio's mood by the entrance, a stooped old man came hobbling toward them wearing an apron of extreme grubbiness, two pitchers of some amber liquid in his hand. He was short and slightly hunchbacked, and had thick grey eyebrows so bushy they almost entirely obscured his eyes. Hermione wondered how he was able to see at all.

"Can I 'elp you, missy?" he asked them in a deep, gravelly voice.

This must have been the barman, Tom.

"Yes, I'm... a new Hogwarts student. We're trying to get to Diagon Alley."

"Ah, yes, very good, very good. I can certainly 'elp you lot there. Let me drop off these butterbeers with them hags over there, be right back, make yerselves at home now..."

He ambled off towards the back of the pub where two old crones wearing thick headscarves were hunched over a small, scarred wooden table. One of them gave Hermione a wide, toothless grin. She looked rather mad.

"Follow me then, eh."

Tom the barman had returned and gestured at them to follow him to the back of the room, and ushered them through a thick, windowless door that had been carved into the back wall.

They found themselves standing in a small courtyard surrounded by a tall brick wall on three sides. The entire space could have been no more than ten feet by ten feet. A rubbish bin stood off to the right of the door, and Hermione saw that the ground was littered with various junk including an old boot and a milk crate.

Tom had pulled out his wand – a short, thick stub of dark wood – and began tapping at the brick wall directly across from them in some sort of pattern Hermione couldn't follow.

He gave a middle brick one final tap and said, "There we are, lassie," and the wall began to move, folding out from the center brick that he'd tapped last.

A second later, a wide archway stood where the brick wall had been, and through it Hermione could glimpse a bustling street filled with people.

"Thank you," she told Tom the barman with a friendly smile, and pulled her parents, who had frozen in wonder at the transformation, through the archway into Diagon Alley.

It was really like being transported into another world, Hermione thought, as she heard her parents gasp behind her.

The view before her reminded of an urbanscape from a past age. Buildings and storefronts of varying shapes and sizes lined the twisted cobbled street as far she could see, all of them very old, although none of them seemed to match at all in color or style otherwise.

In fact, there were many things about Diagon Alley that made Hermione feel as if she had stepped back into another era. Witches and wizards of varying ages sped past her, chatting loudly with their companions and carrying their shopping. Their garb was familiar, yet very unfamiliar at the same time. The men's attire was reminiscent of the stuffy wardrobe of upper-class Victorian England, complete with neckties, and in some cases, cravats, but the standard outer dress jackets had been replaced with loose fitting, billowing robes. The women wore similar formal-looking feminine attire beneath robes. Owls were everywhere; flying over their heads on letter-delivery missions or else perched on random lamp-posts or rooftops of buildings. It was loud, and busy, and chaotic.

Diagon Alley was... well there was no way to describe it, Hermione thought grinning, other than absolutely wonderful.

She and her parents strolled down the street at a languid pace, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling street. There were a lot of families out and about today, towing along small children while older others ran underfoot. Two young boys, both wearing wizard robes of dark blue, pushed past them suddenly as they hurried down the alley. Hermione caught a tidbit of the boys' excited conversation:

"…The fastest broom _ever, _according to 'Which Broomstick', and it has all new stability wards too…"

"Wow…I'd just _die_ to have a Nimbus 2000…"

If they were talking about broomsticks, then they were probably Quidditch fans, Hermione thought as the boys disappeared into the crowd ahead.

Suddenly, her attention was caught by two large store windows on her right, each with a beautiful display of stacked books. The display windows belonged to a large wooden building that stood in prominence in this section of the street - a large sign hanging above the double doors read "Flourish & Blotts, Booksellers Ltd." in large red calligraphy.

"Let's go in here and get my books first," she told her parents as she pulled out her Hogwarts list from her jacket pocket and unfolded it.

They entered the bookstore to find it quite as packed as the street outside. Much like its outer decor, the inside of the bookstore was bedecked in warm wood paneling and shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. She could see the line of shelves extend far into the back of the room, and on their left stood a wooden staircase with a polished balustrade that lead to a second floor balcony with even more books.

A shop attendant - a pimply teenage boy wearing a set of red robes with "F&B" stamped on the right side chest, came over towards them.

"Hogwarts?" he asked them abruptly, looking haggard.

"Yes," she replied.

"What year?"

"First," Hermione said, and to her surprise the boy had turned around in a flash and produced a full stack of books.

"There you are. Hogwarts first-year textbooks," he said quickly and dumped them into her arms.

"It's very busy today, isn't it?" her father asked the attendant.

The boy's shoulder seemed to sag with exhaustion, but seemed much friendlier in his response now that they had mentioned noticing his difficulties. "You have no idea. All of Hogwarts seems to have shown up today with their booklists. I thought this batty old witch was going to hex my ears off when I told her we'd sold out of sixth year Potions books. Well, if you don't need anything else…" the attendant trailed off even as he was already turning to help the next customer who had come up behind the Grangers with a full five lists in hand.

Hermione and her parents stepped to the side and she looked down at the books in her arms - it was indeed the entire set of first-year books. She handed them to her father and said, "Do you mind taking them up to the front to pay? I want to have a quick look around." She left her parents standing in the back of the long line at the register with the moneybag Dumbledore had given her, and made her way through the stacks.

It was much emptier near the back of the store, and darker as well, what with these shelves being hidden away from the bright sun shining through the front windows. The shelves were categorized and labeled at the end of each aisle with peeling thin strips of parchment that read "Advanced Charms", "Human Transfiguration", "Modern Magical History", and so forth. She paused at a shelf that read, "Dark Arts Texts", and slipped into the narrow aisle.

The books in this aisle were all very thick and very old leather-bound tomes. She ran her fingers along their spines as she walked between the shelves, feeling the rough material of their exteriors even as she recognized that there were faint traces of heavy magic emanating from some of the volumes.

She stopped when she reached the end of the row, and pulled down a book at random. Spider-thin silver embossing on the cover read _The Dark Arts Exordium. _Hermione had just flipped the book's cover back to read the title page when she noticed a boy had sidled into her aisle and was making his way slowly down to where she stood. She quickly closed the book in her hands, and examined the boy out of the corner of her eye. He looked to be about her age, and wore a dark green cloak clasped to his chest with a silver pin. Most distinguishing was his hair, which was straight and thin and fell over his forehead in locks of white-blonde so pale it looked almost silver.

He turned his head slightly toward her and his grey eyes lingered over the spine of the book she was holding.

"Not on the Hogwarts booklist, is that?" He asked nonchalantly.

"...No," she replied slowly.

"First year?" he asked again, turning away from her to run a pale finger noncommittally along the row of books on the shelf in front of them, in imitation of her own movements a few minutes before.

"Yes," was her clipped reply.

"What's your name then?"

"Hermione Granger. What's yours?"

He ignored her question. "Granger... I don't recognize the name. Who are your parents?"

_Was this boy always so demanding?_

"You wouldn't know them... they're muggles." she replied cautiously.

She saw his lips curl up in an unmistakable sneer. "...Ah. You're a...muggle-born then, I gather?"

She frowned slightly upon hearing the condescension undulating in his voice.

"Not that it's any of your concern, but I'm a half-blood. I was adopted by my muggle parents," she said coolly.

A look of distaste had come over his face at her words. "Must have been terrible. Having to live with those… muggles. I can't imagine."

"No. They're perfectly pleasant, actually," she retorted.

He arched his eyebrows but didn't say anything in response. She was quickly forming an unpopular opinion of this boy.

She turned away from him to slide _The Dark Arts Exordium _back into its spot on the shelf.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he declared suddenly.

She turned back around, surprised he was still there.

"Draco?" she repeated before she could stop herself. "Like the Dragon Star?"

The boy looked surprised. "Yes, exactly...how did you know?"

"I like stars," she said simply. "You have an interesting name."

"Yes, well... most of my family are named after stars and constellations. It's something of a tradition," he said, looking at her with more interest now. "So what House do you think you'll be sorted into, at Hogwarts?" he asked.

"I don't know," she lied. She didn't feel like divulging too much information to this nosy boy. _Why wasn't he leaving?_

"I know I'll be in Slytherin," he said proudly, puffing out his chest slightly. "All my family for seven generations have been in Slytherin."

"Mh," she said noncommittally, but funneled his answer into a corner of her mind to think about later.

"Though I don't supposed Ravenclaw would be too bad either. But I think I'd leave if I found out I was expected to spend seven years as a _Gryffindor._"

Hermione definitely bristled at that statement. _What was wrong with Gryffindor? _

She had just opened her mouth to say so when he interrupted with another question: "Say, what were you doing looking at that book anyway-"

But before he could finish his question, a man had appeared at the end of the aisle. He was very tall and had long, straight blonde hair that was tied together at the base of his neck with a black ribbon. He had holding a silver cane in his hand, and Hermione could see that the top of the cane was shaped in a brushed silver snake's head. With the cane, his dark robes, and most of all, his posture and the tilt of chin as though he thought all was beneath him, the man reminded Hermione forcefully of the sort of villainous Count that featured in her childhood muggle storybooks. And with that matching shade of white-blonde hair, he could only be this boy's father.

"Let's go, Draco," the man said, his voice cold and clipped. He didn't bother to spare Hermione a second glance, for which she was relieved. She had the strange feeling that she wanted as little interaction with this man as possible, for her own good.

"Coming, Father," the boy said, turning to glance behind his shoulder.

"Well...see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," he said to Hermione, and threw her a final, small smirk before strolling back down the aisle to join his father. They turned the corner and disappeared from view.

Hermione remained standing still in the aisle even after they'd left, processing the conversation that had just occurred. The boy, Draco Malfoy, and his father...she would bet her right arm that they were from one of those pureblood families she'd read about in the books Dumbledore had given her. Their etiquette and mannerisms aside, the boy had confirmed as much when he'd told her his family had been in Slytherin for generations. And his reaction when he had thought her to be a muggle-born... It had definitely been hateful. _And_ he had blatantly come out and insulted Gryffindor House on top of that.

The entire encounter had been disconcerting. Some part of her had assumed – perhaps she hadn't even voiced it to herself– that Hogwarts was an inclusive and comforting place where young people came together in harmony to learn magic. House rivalry… well, it was all supposed to be friendly wasn't it? In her mind, Hogwarts was almost like a kind of oasis… had she been too naive? Was this the kind of prejudice that Dumbledore had subtly referenced and tried to warn her about?

Hermione shook her head slightly to clear her head. Whatever the situation was, she didn't get a good feeling from the boy or his hard-faced father. She hoped she wouldn't run into either of them again. With that thought, Hermione left the back corner of Flourish & Blotts to find her parents.

The Grangers soon left the bookstore, Mr. Granger having successfully paid for Hermione's books, though not without some difficulty (he'd needed the shopkeepers assistance in sorting out the right number of galleons and sickles.) They visited the apothecary next, where Hermione stocked up on potions ingredients that ranged from frogs legs to plant roots to snail eyes. Her mum had flat out refused to enter the store upon seeing the dried snakeskins hanging from the window, and so Hermione had gone in herself, while her dad remained outside to accompany her mother. Hermione was also able to buy a cauldron, dragon-hide gloves, and a telescope at the all-purpose equipment shop next door.

After that they went to buy Hermione's robes at a rather regal looking establishment called "Madame Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions", which housed an impressive collection of moving mannequins that changed their poses every so often to show off their robe styles in the best light. Her mum, Hermione noticed, was perfectly eager to enter this store. They had just barely walked through the front door when her mother meandered over to examine a toe-tapping mannequin and began touching the fluttering material of the mannequin's fancy robes with interest.

Hermione herself was accosted by a large, brusk looking woman in floral robes of pale pink who introduced herself as the eponymous Madame Malkin. She led Hermione onto a small dias and immediately set a collection of tape measures on her. They flew around her, quite of their own volition, taking in all sorts of measurements, some of which Hermione was sure couldn't be relevant to the fit of her robes.

Madame Malkin started draping black fabric over Hermione's shoulders, tucking and pinning it at random and humming as she went along. She would let out random comments every so often as she worked, such as "What a petite bone structure you have," and "You're so thin, dearie. Going to fatten you up, Hogwarts is."

They left Madame Malkin's twenty minutes later, laden with three bags full of new robes and cloaks, Hermione relieved to finally be away out of the woman's grasp.

Hermione stopped and pulled out the Hogwarts materials list, running her eyes down it and mentally checking things off.

"Yes... I think all that's left is to get my wand." She told her parents.

They didn't come across the wandmaker's until they had almost reached the very end of Diagon Alley. Unlike Madame Malkin's with its white marble column facade, "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." was a humble and relatively plain looking shop squashed between two much taller ones, so that it looked even shabbier than normal in comparison.

Hermione paused apprehensively outside of the door, her hand on the handle. This was the moment she had really, truly been waiting for very since she had first seen Dumbledore wave his wand in front of her when she was a child. The small bit of wandless magic she could perform was really only just controlled accidental magic; it was a far cry from real magic wizards could do with a wand. But she would finally get her own wand, here, today.

She pushed open the door lightly and stepped inside, her parents following close behind. The small bell set above the door jingled to signal their arrival, but there was no one manning the front counter. The inside of the shop was small and narrow. Towering shelves that lined the walls on all three sides, and even over the door, were teeming with stacks and stacks of long, thin boxes, each labeled precisely with the same cursive writing.

Suddenly, a ladder came sliding into view from behind a shelf, and an old man hopped down. Ollivander was a man with wild grey hair who was almost as old as Dumbledore, but who seemed to have the boundless energy of a child. He put his face very close to hers and peered at her with strange wide silver eyes and an expression of great interest.

"Hello," he said in a soft voice.

"Er-hello," Hermione replied nervously.

"What's your name?"

"Hermione Granger," she replied, feeling discomfited by the examination of his unblinking gaze.

"Here for your first wand, yes?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Mh… good, good," he murmured, and began to walk around her in circles, still looking at her face closely with his wide silvery eyes. Hermione wondered whether he could tell a person's wand type just by looking at them like this.

Ollivander suddenly stepped back suddenly and began rummaging with the boxes on a shelf to the left. He pulled a box out and opened it on the counter, and handed Hermione the thin wooden stick inside.

"Try this one. Ten inches, walnut, dragon heartstring." She reached out to take the handle with her right hand and gave it an experimental swish in midair. The sound of shattering glass tinkled overhead, and she ducked to avoid the pieces of chandelier as they fell around her.

"I'm sorry," she said hastily, but Ollivander was repeating "Nope, nope, nope…" to himself and paid her no mind. Hermione quickly put the wand back into its box as Ollivander climbed back onto his ladder to rummage through some more wand boxes on an upper shelf.

"Ah, how about this one," he said confidently as he brought down another box, and handed her the wand inside. "Elm, unicorn hair, a bendy nine-and-a-half inches."

She took it and gave it a flick in the direction of the counter, and immediately a stack of innocent receipts sitting in the corner burst into flame.

He snatched that one back from her post-haste with a definitive, "Absolutely not," and put out the small fire with a spout of water from his own wand.

This went on for about twenty minutes until a small mountain of discarded wand boxes were piled haphazardly on the counter.

"You're a difficult one, aren't you," Ollivander said as he sighed and moved to take the umpteenth failed wand from her hand. His fingers brushed hers for the briefest moment as they exchanged the wand between them, and the old man suddenly went slightly rigid and a far-away look came into his eyes. He held the rejected wand loosely in his hand and didn't move to put it away or take out another one.

"…Mr. Ollivander? Sir?" Hermione asked him uncertainly.

He didn't respond but turned around mechanically and vanished into what looked like a hallway leading to the back rooms.

Hermione glanced behind her to look at her parents sitting in the rickety waiting chairs by the door, and shrugged her shoulders.

Ollivander came back into the room a few minutes later holding another wand box, still wearing a strange expression on his face. The box in his hand was different from the others, in that it was not made of cardboard, but of a dark teak wood. He lifted the lid wordlessly and held it out to her, and Hermione saw a wand lying inside among folds of soft, purple velvet.

"Eleven inches, holly, phoenix feather core," he whispered, staring down at the wand.

Hermione reached a hesitant hand out and her fingers enclosed around the handle, and immediately, she knew.

_This is the one._

The wand was thin and had a nice density to it, although the wood itself seemed lightweight. It looked older than the ones she had been trying before; the varnish was no longer shiny, but had a matte finish that enhanced the natural contrast of the wood, so that the knots and the grain were clearly defined. The handle was smooth, but above where her top knuckle was, there was inscribed a thin circle of vine leaves. It gave the wand an overall look a graceful, rustic appeal.

As she lifted it out from its velvet bed and held if aloft, a forceful gale of wind erupted all around her and through the shop, blowing out the candles in the sconces lining the wall and sending several wand boxes flying off the counter. Her parents gave cries of surprise from behind.

Ollivander merely blinked down at her with those luminous eyes, his flyaway grey hair looking even more erratic having been blown back by the wind.

"Yes," he murmured. "This wand… will suit just fine. Seven galleons, please."

Slightly surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation, Hermione put the wand back into its box and counted out the galleons, passing them to Ollivander as he closed the lid back onto the wooden box. He handed the box to her, still looking as though his mind was not quite in the moment.

"Thank you," Hermione said, taking the box but continued to look at Ollivander with mild concern.

He didn't reply, but ushered them out of his shop rather hurriedly and slammed the door on their backs with so much force the window glass of the door rattled. Hermione heard a lock slide into place and the shade of the window dropped immediately after, so that the shop was left looking quite unwelcoming.

"What a strange fellow," her father remarked, as they made their way back down to the middle of the street.

"Yes, he sure was," Hermione replied distractedly, thinking about the abrupt ending to their encounter with Mr. Ollivander. He had seemed quite normal – or at least more normal – when they had first entered the store, but then his behavior had turned just plain bizarre, and she couldn't think of what could have caused the change. Perhaps he'd simply grown tired of her presence in his shop, waving around the wrong wands and destroying his property. She supposed anyone _would _be eager to see her gone after that experience.

"Is that all, Hermione dear?" her mum piped up, looking up and down the street, which had cleared up significantly since they had first arrived that morning. It was now early evening, and the sun was setting over the rooftops and sending strangely shaped shadows over the cobbled stone.

"Yes, that's all," Hermione said, hiking her newly obtained wand box up a bit higher under her arm and leading her parents back down the alley toward The Leaky Cauldron.

* * *

The man with the wide silver eyes picked himself up from the floor where he had all but collapsed after locking his shop door desperately behind his exiting customers. He looked exhausted, and very stressed.

He managed to slide himself up against the doorframe and flicked the window curtain back an inch, peering through it furtively. His gaze followed the backs of the retreating family all the way down the street until he could no longer distinguish them from the crowd. He quickly made his way over to the side window and flipped the sign from "Open" to "Closed", then walked to the back of the shop where his cramped office was located.

He headed straight for the sooty old fireplace where a few dying embers still burned and shoved his hand into a bowl sitting on the mantle. He grabbed a handful of the grey powder inside, threw it into the fireplace, and shouted tersely, "Dumbledore's office!" The fire whooshed alive, its flames an eerie neon green.

A second later, as if he'd sensed a silent signal, the man fell to his knees before the fireplace and shoved his entire head into the flames.

"Dumbledore! I need to speak with you, now. It's urgent."

He must have received a confirmation on the other side of wherever his head was, because he wrenched it back out of the flames and started pacing rapidly in front of the fireplace.

Not long after, the green fire blazed tall and bright, and Albus Dumbledore came spinning out of the fireplace, ducking his head low to avoid hitting it on the mantle as he stepped out onto the carpet.

"Garrick, what is so urgent it could not wait?"

The man Garrick was beyond agitated. He kept running a hand through his unkempt grey hair as he paced back and forth.

"Dumbledore... I don't even know how to say it. I think - I think I may have done something…terrible." He buried his face into his hands and shook his head jerkily.

Dumbledore grasped him by the shoulder and pushed him gently into the frayed looking armchair next to the fire. "Calm yourself. Tell me what happened, from the beginning."

Ollivander attempted to compose himself and grasped the arms of the chair tightly as he began to speak.

"I...have been making wands for over seventy years. It has been a long time. But you know, I can recall every wand I have ever sold, even after all these years. And I have never regretted pairing a wand and a wizard together, except for once in my life. And now today...twice."

"How do you mean?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

Ollivander took a deep breath. "When I was nineteen," he continued shakily, "I was apprenticed here, in this shop, under my father. I'd just graduated from Hogwarts not long before, and was only really starting out learning how to make wands. It takes great skill to forge a wand; I was nowhere near that stage in my training, so mostly I helped at the storefront, selling wands to young Hogwarts students."

"I remember...as clearly as if it had been yesterday, a boy, just a regular first-year, came to our shop to buy his first wand." He looked as if his mind was far away, reliving the memory he was sharing.

"It took ages to pair that boy with the right wand. We must have had gone through half the wands on the shelves, before I… before I thought to take out some of the old wands in the back storage. You see, there are many wands that often don't get paired or sold for years, or even decades after they're forged. Wands are fickle...it's just sometimes how it is. But there were a few in particular that had been in my family of wand-makers for generations upon generations… we joked that they were the forgotten wands, the 'Lost Boys.'" He grimaced in bitter humour.

"I took one out, at random, really...one of the oldest wands we had; yew, phoenix feather core, thirteen and a half inches...not really expecting anything to happen. I was just so frustrated that I couldn't find a match for him. But the moment he took that wand in his hand… it chose that boy as its master with a connection that was the strongest I had ever seen… or have seen since. It was… breathtaking…to behold the magic that flowed from the joining of wand and wizard."

"I was young, and brash, I wanted to prove myself to my father. I sold the boy that wand and bragged that I, out of generations of Ollivanders, had finally found the match to that ancient, difficult wand." He shook his head again in disappointment at this own youthful folly.

"Only much later did I understand the folly of what I had done that day. My God, but I will never forget that day…You know who that boy was, Dumbledore, and why, even now, I cannot speak his name. The shame I have carried with me for decades… knowing that I was the one responsible for putting power into the wrong hands." He closed his eyes in remorse.

"The wand chooses the wizard, Garrick, you've told me yourself countless times. You can hardly place yourself at fault."

"Yes… that is exactly what I told myself over the years. I couldn't have known the… atrocities that wand would go on to perform. But you see, Dumbledore…" His voice was now coming out in a whisper so quiet it was nearly impossible to hear. "I have done something now that puts me precisely at fault."

Dumbledore frowned at him and stated, "I hardly-".

But Ollivander cut him short. "You don't understand, Dumbledore. That wand… his wand… it came in a set. There were two wands in the case that I had taken it from, but I only found out afterwards. I was such a fool. My father had been furious. He told me I'd sold one half of a pair, a pair that shared… that shared twin cores," he breathed.

Ollivander laughed hollowly. "I didn't care, in the beginning. I was a rash teenager. I argued with my father that twin cores or not, selling that wand had been inevitable. If he'd only seen the connection he would have known it too. The wand and the wizard were destined for each other."

"But after… well, the rumors started coming in at the beginning of his rise - dark stories...I began to fear… "

"I was terrified of someone finding out of the twin wand's existence... that the news would get back to him, that he would somehow use it to his advantage and augment his own already terrible power through it. I tucked the second wand away in the furthest corner of my vaults and I banished it from my mind, forever. I never wanted to see or think of it again."

"It almost worked... I thought I would never have to reveal the secret I had so desperately tried to forget. I haven't breathed a word of any of this for... nigh on fifty years now."

"But it has all been for nothing." His eyes were glassy and fear was thick in his voice. "Today… I don't know what came over me. It was almost as if I had gone in a trance. My mind... I can't explain it, but the wand was calling, pulling me towards it, or something was doing it. I saw myself as if from above, uncontrolled, unwillingly, unlocking my vault and unburying that remaining twin wand from it's depths and then I -" He choked on his own words at this point and seemed unable to finish. A look of pain came over him, as if he was forcefully willing the words out of his mouth: "I sold that second wand today."

Ollivander began rocking back and forth in his chair, staring wide-eyed at the carpet. But Dumbledore had turned as still as a statue. His lips barely moving, he uttered only a single hoarse word.

"Who?"

"A girl… an innocent little girl. She must have been muggle-born or something; her parents, they were so obviously muggles. Her name was... so strange...'Hermione Granger'. She was going to be a first-year at Hogwarts...Oh God, the poor girl, what have I done..."

"There's no chance of separating the girl and the wand, then, is there?"

"No…it would be like removing a limb, now that wand has chosen her and she it."

"Hm." Dumbledore gave no further response, but merely turned his back to walk the length of the room.

A silence fell in the room.

Finally Ollivander raised his head an inch, his eyes were red rimmed. "What does this mean, Dumbledore?" he whispered.

Dumbledore's face remained impassive.

"It means nothing."

Ollivander stared incredulously at the older wizard, disbelieving of what he had heard.

"_How can you say that? _Dumbledore! You cannot be ignorant of what the twin cores could potentially mean. And phoenix feather cores, no less, the rarest wand core substance..."

He breathed deeply, and continued in a voice of awe. "The legends of what twin core wands are capable of... neither willing to harm the other, yet standing together, they have the potential to be invincible if in the possessions of the right masters. There hasn't been a case of twinned wands being paired to living wizards of the same era in… well certainly longer than I can remember in wandlore."

"And the fact that it's paired to _his_ wand...if he were to ever get his hands on the girl and managed to join the twin wands in practice or, God forbid, in battle...it would be our downfall." Ollivander shuddered into silence.

His companion had turned his back so that his face was now hidden in the shadow.

"It does not make a difference. Voldemort is gone," Dumbledore finally said.

"Albus! What are you saying, are you mad? I know that you believe, as well as I, that he is most certainly _not_ gone, and certainly not dead. Why are you talking this way, when I know you know He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named remains a threat?"

Dumbledore, still turned away, gave no response.

Ollivander continued speaking in a whisper, and it was unclear whether he was directing his words at himself or the tall wizard standing straight-backed across the room. "I vowed to myself that giving He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named a wand was the worst act of my life. But now I have let into the world a second wand that has the potential to expound his terror. What I have done... it is unforgivable. I will be damned to the circles of Hell for this, I know it..." he trailed off.

"I'm sorry, old friend," came Dumbledore's soft reply.

Ollivander looked up. "Yes…I _am_ very sorry. But whatever are you sorry for?"

"For this – _Obliviate!_"

* * *

Dumbledore stood staring in the fire of his own office, hands clasped behind is back, the flickering colors of the flames reflected in his eyes. Only the tightness of his jaw muscles revealed the turmoil that was taking place inside.

It had started. The prophecy was falling into place, but in ways he never, in his wildest imagination, would have thought possible. Twin phoenix feather wand cores... it was unheard of. Beyond improbable.

If there had been any question, any residual doubt in his mind before this moment, about his actions in believing Hermione to be the prophesized child and taking her from her family…there was now no longer. Fate has surely spoken with this sign. But at the same time, this revelation regarding the wands made no sense. It both confirmed his understanding of what the prophecy was to be, but at the same time, thwarted them. If the child was prophesized to defeat Voldemort, how could it come to pass that she would possess not the wand that was incapable of doing so? What was the meaning of it all...

This was spinning too fast, too far out of his control. He felt already as if he was much too out of his depth, and it was still so very early… she hadn't even started Hogwarts yet.

He didn't understand. He just didn't understand...

* * *

***A/N***

Ollivander and TMR were feasibly only 8 years apart in age (TMR born in 1926; Ollivander born in or slightly before 1919), so Ollivander would indeed have been 19 when TMR went to buy his wand at age 11. In this story, Hermione now has the wand that had originally gone to Harry in JKR's books. Also, in the books, Harry and TMR's wands had been forged by Ollivander himself, whereas here the wands are much older in this story, given Ollivander's young age at the time the wands were supposed to have existed.

But Draco is still a prejudiced prat, so I guess some things don't change that much.

Feel free to R&R - thank you!


	6. Chapter 6 - Hogwarts

****A/N****

Regarding wands: As a reader, I always thought the HP-TMR twin wand connection was a fascinating phenomenon that was sadly kind of rushed through. I wanted to dig a little deeper into that whole idea in this story, so the idea will be expanded more here. All theories should come back around again and will be explained further.

Regarding Ollivander: Throughout the story, there will be slight changes to the characterization of some familiar names; Ollivander is one of many such characters. As some readers have noticed, he was much less impartial in this story than he was in the books, and I have him here as a friend to Dumbledore rather than just a side character.

In all, there will be many slight changes to lore, and many significant changes to plot moving forward. Like Dumbledore, I, too, am planning for the long game, so please bear with me. :) In the meantime, we're finally headed off to Hogwarts!

PS: Just figured out the whole guest review moderation thing (which I've now turned off), so if you left a review earlier and it disappeared, very sorry!

* * *

**Chapter 6 - Hogwarts**

September 1, 1991

The morning of September 1st arrived cold, wet and grey over the Victoria Lane as Hermione stood silently in her room. The day was finally upon her. Her stomach gave a funny turn as she thought about it. She had been waiting her entire life for this moment...but it was bittersweet all the same.

She would miss her parents terribly, and it was clear the feeling was mutual. This entire past week, her mum had become teary-eyed and hovery at random times, sniffling across from her over breakfast, or else hugging her randomly as Hermione did perfectly mundane things like fold the laundry. Her dad had put on a mask of cheeriness, talking up all the fun he expected her to have at school, but Hermione knew he didn't quite feel it. She supposed she couldn't blame them - Hogwarts was an unknown place (quite literally; no one knew where it was located on the Isles), and she wouldn't be seeing her parents again until Christmastime.

Hermione had already packed her trunk the night before, but opened it anyway for a final inspection. Stacked neatly on the left side of the trunk were piles of books: her spellbooks for her first-year, some of the more important books Dumbledore had given her throughout the years, and on top, in its rightful place of importance, her same old battered copy of _Hogwarts, a History_. The right side of the trunk held everything else: cauldron and potions ingredients and folded robes and other uniform essentials. She would keep her wand on her for the journey.

Hermione turned around and looked around her room. This would be the last time she would be in here for a good long while. Her eye caught an object hanging on a hook behind her door.

She walked over and took it off the hook; it was a slightly dusty, slightly frayed navy colored baseball cap with a blue lion insignia on the field of gold and white. She rubbed some of the dust off the brim, and smiled as the memory of how she'd gotten it came back to her.

Almost on impulse, she placed it on top of _Hogwarts, A History_...then snapped the lid of the trunk back down with finality, locking it.

It was time to go to Hogwarts.

* * *

The journey to King's Cross Station was a silent one. No one spoke much; her parents had adopted a mood of melancholia, but Hermione was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to play the role of false cheer.

Her mind turned back to her final conversation with Dumbledore...

_"At Hogwarts, and in the greater wizarding world, you will be exposed to many people and many ideas...know that there are forces and entities in the wizarding world that are not friendly to me, to you, or to our side."_

She had considered those words a lot since that day. The more she thought about them, the more ominous they seemed, but she couldn't quite understand what he had meant. What "side" was he referencing? The war was over, had _been_ over for almost a decade now. Surely that kind of thinking belonged in the past?

Whatever Dumbledore had meant, the words, along with her interaction with that boy in Diagon Alley, gave her a feeling of ill ease that had warred with the pristine ideology she had so carefully built up about Hogwarts and the wizarding world. She wasn't sure what to think now.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud squawk from the cage in the seat next to her as the car jolted to a stop.

"We're here, sweetie," her dad said, pulling into a parking slot.

Hermione gave Helios's cage a small tap to convey reassurance. She had covered it with a cloth cover, figuring it would help him stay calm and also because she didn't want to have to explain to the King's Cross Station security guards why she was attempting to smuggle a barn owl onto what they thought would be a public train.

Her dad helped her get a trolley and loaded her trunk onto it. She balanced Helios's cage on top of the trunk and turned back to her parents, who were standing in front of the car looking teary-eyed. Dumbledore had told her muggles were not able to cross the barrier into Platform 9¾, so she and her parents had agreed to say goodbye outside the station.

"Well," her dad said rubbing his hands together awkwardly as her mum wiped her eyes on a handkerchief by his side. "Have a great year, darling, and don't forget to write us. I fully expect to see this owl visiting us on a regular basis, and you know I'm being serious when I say this because of how much I dislike birds."

Hermione smiled at him and accepted his bear hug. She hugged her mother too. "I'll write you lots, I promise. I'm sure I'll be back in no time at all."

Her parents clambered back into the old Vauxhall, and Hermione stood on the curb next to the trolley and waved goodbye at their retreating outline until they merged into the traffic and she could no longer see them.

She hesitated a moment, standing by herself at the curb, then gripped her trolley by the handle and pushed it towards the entrance of the station.

Platform 9¾ was not hard to find, per say, she thought as she stood standing between Platforms 9 and 10, looking up at the very stone, very _solid_ column that stood between them with a look of apprehension. According to Dumbledore, apparently this stone wall was the barrier onto the platform; one merely had to walk through it, but she couldn't see how. She peered around the column, leaning over the tracks slightly, to see the back. Yes, it definitely didn't look like it went anywhere; it was just a column.

"Hey! Put yer head back, girlie!" an overweight security guard huffed and puffed over to where she was, smacking his baton loudly against his palm.

"Er – sorry," she said hastily. He looked at her with her large trunk and cage suspiciously. "My parents went to get tickets," she lied. He nodded and walked away but she saw him look glance back at her with continued suspicion.

_Better get a move on then_, she thought to herself. She turned back towards the wall and gripped her trolley handle tighter and took a deep breath and was just about to take a step –

"Oh, it's you again," drawled a voice behind her.

At the intrusion, she almost fell over in surprise and let out her pent-up breath in one big whoosh. The voice sounded familiar... who was...?

_Oh, bollocks._

She placed his voice at the same time his white-blonde head appeared in her peripheral vision. She turned around quickly.

Draco Malfoy was standing there pushing a trolley like her own with a large trunk and a gilded cage inside which there was a handsome grey eagle owl.

Behind him stood two people who were very obviously his parents. The woman was dressed in deep green robes that were obviously expensive. Her hair was also blonde, but not as white-silver as her son or her husbands. Although she was very pretty, she was looking down her nose at Hermione with an expression that suggested she frequently held a look of permanent snobbishness; it did not improve her looks. The man beside her was the same one that had interrupted she and Draco's first meeting in Flourish & Blotts. He was even taller up close than she had thought, and was wearing equally rich dark velvet robes as his wife. His white blonde hair was styled long today and fell over his shoulders in a straight wave. This close, Hermione could see Draco's father had eyes the color of glaciers, and the look he was giving her was just as frigid. She shivered slightly under his gaze. This man was clearly not one to be crossed.

Hermione was surprised that they were wearing wizard robes and not muggle clothes while traveling through the very muggle train station. But surprisingly enough, not one of the bustling muggles around them seemed to notice this strangely dressed family in their midst. Maybe they'd cast a concealing charm on themselves.

"Can't get through the archway, or don't know how?" Draco drawled at her with a maddening air of superiority.

"I was just about to go through," she replied stiffly.

"Well, go on then," he said, jerking his head toward the wall.

She turned back and breathed deeply, then pushed her trolley toward the very solid looking wall, closing her eyes tightly as she drew closer, fully expecting to slam into it.

But her feet had kept on going. She opened her eyes quickly and found herself on the other side of the barrier facing a massive scarlet steam engine emblazoned with the golden lettering, "Hogwarts Express."

"Wow..." she said quietly to herself.

The train was enormous and was letting out billowing clouds of smoke over the entire platform so that it put everything in a kind of white haze. It emitted a shrieking whistle, but the sound was quickly enveloped by the loud clamor coming from the crowd on the platform around her. It was packed and very loud; owls in cages hooted at other owls, children were laughing and yelling to their friends across the platform, and parents, some in robes while others in badly composed muggle outfits, were attempting to hug children who were leaning out the train windows.

Draco had followed her through the barrier and pulled his trolley up next to hers. He looked begrudgingly impressed at the sight of train as well.

"Well, bye," she said quickly and pushed her trolley forward without bothering to wait for a reply. She was eager to leave behind Draco Malfoy and his unsmiling parents to say their goodbyes in private to their son.

She weaved her way through the jostling crowd with difficulty, finally made it to one of the open doors on the train, and entered, heavy trunk and owl cage in tow. The narrow hallway of the train was packed with students as well, some of them already wearing their Hogwarts robes, and all of them talking excitedly.

"Oy! Duck!"

She ducked her head quickly and a fanged Frisbee came zooming over her. A tall teenage boy with dreadlocks behind her caught it and flashed her an apologetic smile before running the aisle in the other direction, no doubt to prepare for another long throw to his friend.

Hermione hastened her way down the aisle to avoid getting hit by any more teethed flying objects, past rows of jam-packed compartments, and pulled up finally to a compartment at the end of her carriage that looked empty. She pulled the door open with difficulty and was just about to heave her trunk through the narrow opening when she caught sight of a person sitting on the far side of the seats, facing away, nose pressed against the window pane.

He turned his head toward the door as he heard her enter.

She could see it was a young boy, probably no older than she was herself. He was wearing shabby looking muggle clothing - jeans and trainers - and looked altogether out of place. She hadn't noticed him sitting in the compartment initially because his large, thick hooded sweatshirt was the exact same brown color as the vinyl seat he was sitting on.

"Can I sit here? Everywhere else is full," she asked.

"Er – yeah. Yeah," he said, then remembering his manners, scrambled from his seat to help her move her trunk inside and up into the luggage rack.

"Thanks," she said, and took the seat opposite him, settled Helios's cage next to her, and was able to take a closer look at the boy.

He was very skinny, or at least seemed so judging by the way he was nearly drowning in his baggy sweatshirt, and had a peaky countenance that suggested malnourishment. His messy black hair came down over his forehead and stuck up in the back, and he was wearing round, black wire glasses held together by what looked like Scotch tape at the nose bridge.

He looked a bit unsure of himself and a little confused, and kept throwing furtive looks at Hermione when he thought she wasn't looking.

There was... something off about the boy.

No, not 'off,' just...strange, although that wasn't quite the right word either. It was something she couldn't quite place her finger on. It was like a déjà vu, in that there was something about him that was very familiar, as if they'd met in the past, or she'd seen him in a crowd somewhere before. But at the same time, where would she have met him? She'd never met any wizards other than Dumbledore in all her life, apart from her brief trip to Diagon Alley. And this boys eyes... she was sure she had never seen such a saturated green before in a pair of eyes, yet they were so intimately familiar all the same...

As if reading her mind, he asked, "Do I know you?" looking at her just as curiously. He reached up to sweep his bangs out of his eyes in a habitual motion.

No, she thought, in a flash of understanding, I have definitely never met him before. I would have remembered.

They called him The Boy Who Lived… and it was an apt title. Famous from the age of one year old when somehow, for reasons unknown, the terror of the Wizarding World, Lord Voldemort, whose name people still feared to speak even now, had attempted to kill him and failed. And he had not only lived, but had made the Dark wizard disappear at the same time.

"…No…but I know who you are. You're Harry Potter."

When he had brushed his hair back, she had seen what it had been covering — a thin, lightning shaped scar on his forehead.

He looked a bit taken aback.

"I've read about you, and about your scar, in books," she explained. He just blinked at her, surprised, as if disbelieving that any book would bother to mention someone as nondescript as himself.

"Oh," he said, "I – well, alright then. What's your name?"

"Hermione Granger."

"Pleased to meet you. And this is Hedwig," he said quickly, gesturing to the beautiful snowy white owl sleeping serenely in its cage next to him. It opened one bleary eye to gaze at her, hooted, and went back to its nap.

"My owl is named Helios," she said, taking the cover off of Helios's cage so the boy could see. Helios looked around with interest and excitement at finally being able to see his surroundings. He pecked at the bars and flapped his wings.

"I think he wants to come out. Do you mind?" she asked the boy. He shook his head, so she unlatched Helios's cage and the owl hopped out, landed his talons into her hair, then launched off and flew right out the open window.

Hermione let out a sound of surprise, but the boy, Harry, tried to reassure her: "I'm sure he's only gone for some fresh air."

He seemed to be right. The owl, after being blown back by the force of the wind outside, had bobbed back to the level of their window and was flying alongside the train.

There was a moment of silence as they both watched the owl flying about, still being pushed this way and that by the strong gale outside.

"So...are you – I mean, do you come from... a wizard family?" Harry asked her hesitantly, as if unsure if this topic was considered polite conversation.

"No. My parents are muggles."

"Oh. I live with my aunt and uncle. They're muggles too," he said, although he didn't sound very happy with the prospect.

That's right... she'd read that he had gone off to live with muggle relatives somewhere in Britain.

"Do you know any magic?" he asked, this time more eagerly.

She hesitated. "I know... a little bit. I've read some things in books, you know..." She tried to sound intentionally vague and pointedly avoided saying anything that would suggest she'd had any non-literary resources.

"Like any spells? I tried doing some reading too before today, but it was all mumbo jumbo to me."

"Just a few. Here," she said, and reached up and plucked his glasses from his face. She took out her wand and tapped the tip to the tightly wound tape holding the two halves of the glasses together.

"Reparo!"

The Scotch tape fell away to reveal the now mended metal of the nose bridge. She handed it back to an astonished looking Harry.

He put the glasses back on his nose and blinked a few times. "Wow, thanks! Where did you learn _that?_"

"I did a bit of light reading from the _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_," she explained, glowing a little bit at his very obvious gratitude. "So did you only just find out about Hogwarts?" she asked him.

"Yeah. I had someone come tell me about being a wizard and about Hogwarts, about a month ago... but I still don't know very much. This whole magic thing, it's really unbelievable."

She was beginning to like this boy, Harry. He was humble, and kind, unless some _other_ boys she happened to be acquainted with, if she could even call it such.

She nodded her assent. "I feel as if I'm at a bit of a disadvantage," she said truthfully, glad to have someone who understood the gnawing worry that had latched onto her for so long. "Being from a muggle home...there's just so much to learn about the wizarding world, you know? That just can't be had from books and things."

"Yes, exactly," Harry said eagerly.

"I'm sure we can help each other out," she said, smiling at him. He smiled shyly back at her.

"So...what House do you think you'll be sorted into? Have you heard of the Houses at Hogwarts yet?" she asked him.

He hesitated. "Yes, I've...heard a bit. There are four, right? I honestly don't know which one I'd go into. Although..." he sounded unsure whether he wanted to say the next part aloud. "...I don't think I would much like Slytherin," he confessed.

Yes, she definitely liked this boy much better.

"Me neither," she said, a bit relieved to hear him say so. "I hear Gryffindor is nice, though."

She was dying to ask the question, but she didn't want to sound rude and pry into what must undoubtedly be a not-so-pleasant memory, if he even remembered anything about it at all. But her curiosity got the better of her.

"So..." she continued hesitantly.

"No," Harry replied before she could even get the words out. "I don't remember anything. About...what happened when I was a baby."

"Oh," she said, blushing slightly.

"It's alright," he said with a friendly smile, as if he knew what she was thinking. "I don't mind people asking. I just really don't remember anything. I didn't even know about... all that, you know, being famous and _why_ I'm famous, until really recently."

"Even so, you must be really talented," Hermione said in slight awe.

"Well that's the thing," he said awkwardly. "I...think I'm just normal. I've never done anything with magic that's really that interesting, I suppose. I just hope people don't expect me to have some sort of... I dunno, powers or something," he finished, looking miserable at the thought.

Hermione was about to say something sympathetic when the door to their compartment was pulled open and a stout, frizzy-haired witch poked her head in. She was wearing a red striped witches hat and matching red robes embroidered with the Hogwarts Express insignia. "Anything off the lunch trolley, dears?"

"Yes," she and Harry said together automatically. Hermione was starved; she hadn't eaten much breakfast, having been so nervous, and this boy Harry looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks.

They each pulled out their moneybag and bought a handful of everything, pooling the snacks and candy onto the seat next to Hermione, who had moved Helios's empty cage to the floor.

"What _are_ all these?" Harry asked in wonderment, picking up a red and blue packaged sweet and examining it closely. Hermione picked up a matching sweet and read the label. "It's called a Chocolate Frog...just chocolate, I imagine."

Harry ripped one open and out hopped a frog made of chocolate. It croaked loudly then jumped off the seat and out the open compartment door, which they had not closed properly behind the witch with the trolley.

Harry was gaping after it with his mouth open, but Hermione just giggled.

"Chocolate Frog...they weren't kidding," she said, herself prying open a box called "Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans."

Harry looked back down at the Chocolate Frog-less wrapper he was now holding, and pulled out a small card that was inside. "Interesting... it looks like a trading card of some sort," he said turning it over.

Hermione nearly dropped the box of beans she was holding in surprise. As Harry flipped his card over, she saw the moving portrait of a man on the backside, a very _familiar_ elderly man with a long grey beard and half-rim glasses.

"That's Dumbledore!" she exclaimed before she could stop herself, and immediately regretted her outburst. But Harry didn't seem to notice anything unusual about her recognizing the man in the portrait.

"The Headmaster?" he said in surprise, turning the card back around to gaze at the portrait. A second later, he let out of cry of alarm, "He's gone!"

"What?"

"He's gone! He just... walked right out of the picture!"

"Oh right, I heard that people _move_ in magical pictures," she told him.

"Weird..." he said, still looking amazed.

Just then, the door slid open for a second time that afternoon and a tall, gangly boy with a shock of bright orange hair and a lot of freckles stood with a foot in the door.

"Oy. Is this frog yours?" he asked them. He was holding Harry's squirming escaped Chocolate Frog in his hands. "It was hopping around in the hall."

The red-haired boy's eyes suddenly alighted on the card that Harry was still holding, and said excitedly, "Oh! Do you trade? I have loads, which one is that? I'll trade you half my deck if it's Agrippa, I've been looking for her for ages."

"Erm - no, it's Dumbledore," Harry said, slightly dismayed.

The boy's face fell. "Shame. I have about fifty of him, he's very popular. Anyway, about this – "

He had just made to gesture with the Frog in his hands, when the thing squeezed through the boy's tight grip and hopped onto the seat next to Hermione, then right over her lap and out the open train window. Unlike Helios, it did not come back up.

They all turned to watch it go. Only little chocolatey frog prints on the brown vinyl seats remained to indicate the Frog's adventures in their compartment.

"Gah. Slippery little buggers aren't they? Now I've got chocolate all over me," the boy said, sounding perfectly unannoyed despite his words.

"Here," Hermione said, passing him a napkin. He took it gratefully and began rubbing the melted chocolate off his fingers, taking a seat next to Harry.

"Thanks. I'm Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley," the boy said reaching out his now clean hand.

"Please to meet you. This is Hermione Granger, and I'm Harry Potter," Harry said and extended his hand to shake Ron's.

Ron's eyes turned the size of saucers and his mouth went slack. "H-Harry Potter? Not _the Harry Potter_?"

"Er - yeah, I suppose I am," Harry replied awkwardly.

"Wow," Ron said, his eyes moving unsubtly to Harry's forehead. "I can't believe I almost traded Frog cards with Harry Potter...wait till Fred and George hear about this!"

As if suddenly remembering himself, he flushed, then said, "Sorry- what I meant is that Fred and George - my older brothers - they'd probably really like to meet you. We've all heard loads about you, and stuff, obviously..." he trailed off uncomfortably into silence.

"Are they at Hogwarts, too?" Hermione asked him with interest, eager to hear more about Ron's family. If they knew about Harry Potter's history, then they were likely magical.

"Yeah. Fred and George are twins, they're in third year. And I have three more elder brothers, and a younger sister too. The two eldest – Bill and Charlie – have already finished Hogwarts," he explained.

"Six siblings..." Hermione said in wonderment. "Must be exciting." Harry nodded his agreement.

"No, trust me, it really not. I get all the hand-me-downs from my older brothers. Like this stupid rat, Scabbers, he used to be Percy's," he complained with an annoyed expression on his face as he reached into his jacket pocket - which Hermione had not noticed before had been bulging - and pulled out a fat grey rat with a long, hairless tail.

"He doesn't do _anything_. Completely useless," Ron said. "I'd much rather have an owl, but, you know, they're kind of, well – not very cheap..." he trailed off, eyeing Hedwig, still asleep in her cage, with slight envy.

He looked embarrassed at having brought it up. Hermione moved to change the subject.

"Harry and I were both raised in muggle homes, so we don't really know too much about...Hogwarts and all that," she said.

"Oh, well I mean there's not much too it, really," Ron said shrugging his shoulders. "You get sorted into Houses and take classes, and play Quidditch."

"What's Quidditch?" Harry replied curiously.

He gaped at them. "You've never heard – but Quidditch! Well, I suppose muggles wouldn't know about it... anyway, it's the best sport ever. It's played on broomsticks, and there are four House teams. Fred and George are on Gryffindor's, they're Beaters. I play some Keeper myself, sometimes, at home, but of course they don't allow first-years on the House team..." he rattled on.

As Harry and Ron launched into an eager discussion about how Quidditch was played, Hermione rolled her eyes slightly and let her mind wander.

_Quidditch…apparently its all wizarding boys ever think about_, she thought to herself.

This Ron Weasley...he seemed nice enough, although he did talk an awful lot. What was so fascinating was that he seemed to come from an entirely wizarding family that was altogether different from the ones she had read about in Dumbledore's books.

Harry on the other hand... well, she didn't know how to describe it, exactly, but she felt him to be a very genuine and reassuring kind of person, despite having known him for only half an afternoon. She would have expected someone as famous as him to have an inflated ego — he was in half of all the modern history books she'd ever read, after all — but he seemed so nice and unassuming and endearingly nervous. They shared a kinship in that last emotion, both coming from muggles homes.

She was shaken out of her thoughts by a loud gonging of a bell overhead and the unmistakable screech of the train's brakes being applied.

"Better change into our Hogwarts robes, I imagine," said Ron, standing up. "Sounds like we'll be there soon." He offered a quick "See you later!" before hopping off his seat and exiting to go back to his own compartment to change.

Hermione and Harry pulled out their wizard robes and put them on over what they were already wearing. The Hogwarts school uniforms were not very different from what Hermione usually wore to her muggle school, which had required uniforms for both girls and boys: white shirt, tie, sweater, slacks or skirt. The only difference was the thick black robes that went over everything. She finished pulling her own robes over her shoulders and adjusting her sweater, and looked up to see Harry holding the two ends of his tie, which was draped around his neck, with mild bewilderment. She took pity on him and helped him tie it.

The train finally came to a full stop and they exited, and found themselves on a small wooden platform surrounded by trees. It was already nightfall - the sky was dark and it was windy and blustery and drizzling lightly.

A loud voice broke over their heads. "Firs' years, to me! Firs' years!"

An enormous man was standing in the middle of crowd, waving his hands towards their end of the platform. He was easily twice as tall as any of the students milling around him, and three times as wide. Everything about his was extra large - his huge hands could have easily fit around a small child's entire body. He wore a big brown moleskin overcoat and his face was covered with an equally thick, rough looking beard - all in all, a very intimidating appearance. It must have shown on her face, because Harry said quickly, "That's Hagrid, he's really nice. He's the groundskeeper."

"Over 'ere, first-years. Come on, now, 'urry it up. Oh, hi there Harry, doin' alright?" Hagrid had made his way over towards them as he ushered along the crowd of first-years through the drizzling rain.

"Just great," Harry said, smiling weakly, his black hair plastered to his forehead.

Hagrid led them down from the train station through a lightly wooded path that ended at the edge of a vast, black lake. On the shore, there sat neat rows of little boats.

"Four to a boat now," Hagrid said as he clambered into a boat all on his own, barely fitting into it as it was.

Hermione and Harry sat themselves into one of the boats, where they were joined by Ron and a round-faced, fearful looking boy named Neville Longbottom. The boats began to move across the flat lake, the only sound the continued tinkling of the rain on the black water around them.

Hogwarts came into view as they cleared the treeline. A collective gasp came from the fleet of small boats, and quite rightly. The silhouette of a gigantic stone castle rose from the cliff before their eyes, its towering spires rising up and up, almost as if touching the moon whose faint light still managed to glow from behind the thunderclouds. It was everything Hermione had imagined it would be.

The first years were all quite soaked when they reached the other side of the lake, at a small rocky harbour that looked like it was beneath the school itself. They climbed out of the boats and Hagrid lead them up to a thick wooden door cut into the stone. He knocked loudly three times.

The door was opened with a loud creak by a tall, stern looking older woman in emerald green robes and a pointed black witches hat. She led them through the underground tunnel and up a flight up steps then into the entrance hall.

"Welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Professor McGonagall. In a few moments, you will enter the Great Hall and be sorted into your Houses. Please wait here quietly while things are prepared, and I will come and get you momentarily," she informed them in a Scottish brogue and a no-nonsense tone.

But the moment she stepped out, the hall immediately filled with a low buzz of sound as the first-years gossiped about what they thought the Sorting would involve. She and Harry and Ron were standing huddled together at the edge of the crowd, still sopping wet, when a familiar someone approached them.

"I heard Harry Potter was on the train...looks like the rumours were true," the blonde boy smirked. Draco Malfoy stood before them looking haughty, flanked on both sides by two large, thuggish looking boys who resembled gorillas.

Harry didn't say anything to confirm or deny the statement.

A sneer had come to Malfoy's face as his gaze moved away from Harry, right over her, and settled on Ron, standing to her left. "And…ah. Red hair…vacant expression…_interesting_ clothes...who else but a _Weasley_." Ron bristled at Malfoy's tone of disgust.

"It's alright," Malfoy continued, turning back to Harry with a look of mock graciousness. "You were raised by muggles, you can't be expected to know. But I'm here to enlighten you that there are _better _sorts of people who can show you around, Potter, if you know what I mean. No need to dirty yourself with this kind of riffraff trash here." He extended a hand for Harry to shake.

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed. This boy, Draco Malfoy, had seemed rude before, but this, this was just downright... unpleasant.

"I think I can decide that for myself, thank you," Harry replied coolly, ignoring Malfoy's outstretched hand. There was a tense pause as Mafoy's eyes narrowed maliciously at Harry.

Then Malfoy sneered again and pulled back his hand, brushing it down the side of his robes as if dusting his hands off of the whole situation. "Suit yourself, Potter. Your loss. Guess you're just following in the footsteps of your parents, getting in with the wrong sort and all. Don't say I didn't warn you, though, when Weasley's smell starts to rub off on you. But maybe that's your thing, who knows?" He shrugged mockingly and smirked at Ron who was turning a delicate shade of puce and almost shaking with restrained anger.

"Nice seeing you again, Granger," he called back to her as he turned around and gestured to his two companions.

"You _know_ him?" Harry swiveled around to her as the blonde head weaved its way back through the crowd.

"No!" she said defensively. "I-we met in Diagon Alley once. I don't know him, and I certainly don't like him."

Ron was still fuming and breathing loudly through his nose. "That little git. My dad's told me all about the Malfoys...they're filthy rich and they think they can get away with anything because of it. But it's all blood money because I heard that they were in with You-Know-Who back in the day, and no matter what they say about coming back to the Light, my dad thinks they're still foul-"

"Forget about him," Hermione cut him off. "He's not worth our time. Come on let's go, the crowds moving."

Indeed it was; the hawk-eyed Professor McGonagall had returned to the entrance hall and was now leading the line of first-years through the double doors and into the Great Hall.

The first thing Hermione noticed was the ceiling which opened up into the night skies, but which must have been enchanted because the rolling, grey cloud cover and falling droplets had no effect whatsoever on the atmosphere inside. Four long tables stood the full length of the hall, and each was packed with students chatting loudly. On the train, it had been hard to tell just how many Hogwarts students there were, but here she could see that there were several hundred at least. At the very far end of the room stood a raised table perpendicular to the other four, where sat a row of adults. They must be the teachers, Hermione thought. She looked down the line carefully, looking for someone, then saw him sitting in the very center of the head table.

He looked ever the same, wearing periwinkle blue robes dotted with gold stars this evening that Hermione knew, even though she couldn't see them from this distance, matched his eyes. It was strange to see him amidst a room full of other wizards; she'd only ever really known him in the context of their private conversations, and never with other people. It was a kind of bizarre experience, but, all the same, she felt better just knowing he was there.

They had reached the center front of the hall. Professor McGonagall stopped suddenly and turned around to face her wide-eyed charges.

Hermione craned her neck and saw a little brown stool behind McGonagall's long robes, on which sat a very frayed, very patched old wizard's hat. The other first-years around her were staring at the hat with curiosity too, which turned quickly to shock as the brim of the hat opened and it began to talk.

No, _sing, _Hermione realized in astonishment.

The patched hat sang a little song (Or was it a rhyme? It was hard to tell, the hat didn't really have any intonation) about the different qualities of the Houses. It finished with a loud yodel, tipped it top towards Dumbledore in a mock little bow, then fell silent. The hall burst into applause, but the first-years continued to look confused.

"Ahem," Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and shook a long roll of parchment until it unfurled several feet. "Now, the Sorting will begin shortly. When I call your name, please approach the stool and put on the Sorting Hat. You will then join the table whose House you are sorted into."

"Abbott, Hannah!"

A round-faced girl with blonde pigtails standing near the front of the line gave a jolt of recognition at her own name, but didn't move. Her friend, a dark haired girl, gave her a small push from behind and Abbott, Hannah went to sit on the stool.

All of the first-years stared at the pigtailed girl apprehensively – she was the first of them to stand trial. What was happening to her?

Apparently nothing, it seemed. Abbott, Hannah just sat on the stool, the hat just sat on her head, and she just sat and stared up at it.

Then, suddenly, the rip in the brim reappeared and shouted for all the hall to hear, "Hufflepuff!"

The girl seized the hat from her head and waltzed off to join the table directly to their left, which had erupted in loud applause.

"Boot, Terry!"

_I wonder what's happening inside the hat, _Hermione thought wildly, as a few more students were sorted.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"

_It couldn't be anything terrible…maybe it's quizzing us on what we've read? That wouldn't be so bad…_

Finnigan, Seamus, a sandy haired boy, became a Gryffindor.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione took a deep breath, the stepped out of the line and moved up to the front of the room in front of the hall towards the teacher's table. The walk seemed to last forever; surely the hall hadn't seemed this long from over there? Her palms were sweating.

As she drew closer, she caught Dumbledore's eye. His face was impassive but she could have sworn he gave her his usual small wink. It gave her a surge of confidence.

_Snap out of it, Hermione, you can do this._

She'd finally reached the stool, and sat down gingerly on it. Professor McGonagall dropped the hat over her and the brim fell past her eyes and suddenly everything was dark.

"Ah... why hello there," a little voice sounded in her ear. She jumped.

"No need to be surprised, it's just me, the Sorting Hat...here to take a peek into your mind and see where to send you. Now let's see... ooh this is going to be a tough one, I just know it."

_Why do I hear that a lot_, Hermione wondered to herself.

To her amazement, the hat responded. "Hm…yes, yes…I'm sure you do, and they're not wrong. You _are_ a difficult one to decipher...I see a little bit of everything here...or rather, to be correct, a _lot_ of everything."

"Ah, hmm_, _oh yes, I see, very clearly, the obvious choice, of course. You have plenty of Gryffindor courage, yes indeed...but then again, the obvious choice is often not the best choice, as they say...There is a sharp mind in here as well, Ravenclaw would certainly push you there. And... oh my, plenty, _plenty, _of loyalty, my, my...whoever can call you a dear friend will be very lucky, indeed...Hufflepuff herself would be hard pressed to find a more loyal compatriot. This _is_ a challenge isn't it…"

The hat mused to itself a bit longer while Hermione sat waiting tensely, still in darkness.

"And last, but certainly not least, there is... mh...lots and lots of potential. Yes, indeed...and you know who could help you manifest that potential, achieve greatness...yes, the very same, one and only Slytherin."

At those words, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and thought as hard as she could, _Not Slytherin, not Slytherin..._

"Not Slytherin, eh? But it's all here, in your head... the power, the cunning...Slytherin could send you straight to the annals of history, little girl."

_No, please, not Slytherin, anything but Slytherin…_

"Are you sure? I really must insist, here... all that digging in your head wasn't for nothing, you know. Slytherin really would be a good fit."

_Please, please no…I don't want to. Not Slytherin…_

"Well...if you really insist… What with your heritage, I suppose the only other option will just have to be... GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat had shouted this last word out into the open hall. Hermione quickly took it off her head and put it back on the stool and, shaking slightly, walked toward the table on the far left, which had burst into applause.

Her mind was tingling with a funny feeling at the hat's last words – What had it meant by 'your heritage'? But she was too relieved to pay it much thought as she took a seat between two third-years who thumped her on the back in congratulations.

As she sat, she couldn't resist turning her head to give the head table one last glance, and this time, she definitely saw that Dumbledore was looking at her, wearing a big smile and his eyes twinkling merrily.

"Welcome to Gryffindor," an older red-haired boy across from her said with a friendly smile. "I'm the Gryffindor Prefect, Percy Weasley."

"Oh. Thanks!" she replied. This must have been one of Ron's many elder brothers, then. She saw that he had a bright silver prefect's badge pinned to the front of his robes. She looked down the Gryffindor table - they seemed a friendly and welcoming lot, if not a bit rowdy. She turned back towards the front to watch the rest of the sorting.

Several more students were sorted much quicker than she had been, including the round-faced boy who had shared their boat with them. He became a Gryffindor. Then it was -

"Malfoy, Draco!"

His usual smirk in place, Draco Malfoy approached the hat and lifted it onto his head. It had barely even touched that silver hair before its brim opened and shouted, "Slytherin!" into the hall. The Slytherin table cheered loudly, and Malfoy, looking immensely satisfied, went to join them.

_Well, at least he got what he wanted_, thought Hermione.

"Parkinson, Pansy!" became a Slytherin too. Two twin girls named Patil went next - one joined the Gryffindor table a couple of seats down from Hermione, and the other was folded in by the Ravenclaw table.

Then finally, it was "Potter, Harry!"

A hush fell over the entire room, and people from all tables were craning their necks over their classmates to watch Harry as he made his way up to the stool. She didn't think she had ever seen anyone look as nervous as he did then. He lifted the Sorting Hat hesitantly over his head, a look of trepidation on his face. But he needn't have worried – like Draco Malfoy, the hat had barely brushed his messy black hair before it shouted into the silent room, a resounding "Gryffindor!"

Harry looked utterly relieved as he hurried over toward her at the Gryffindor table amidst loud cheers. People around them stood up to clap him on the shoulder as he squeezed himself next to her on the bench.

"Congratulations," she said, smiling.

"Thank God," he said letting out a shaky breath.

The next few first years went quickly - quite a few went to Hufflepuff, and a few more to Ravenclaw. "Thomas, Dean" became the next Gryffindor.

Then finally, it was Ron's turn, his freckles clearly visible because he had turned quite pale. A few seconds later - "Gryffindor!" and Ron came and squeezed himself on Hermione's other side.

"Congratulations, Ron. Our parents will be proud, I'm sure," said Percy Weasley pompously, reaching across the table to clap his younger brother on the shoulder.

The noise in the Great Hall died down suddenly as a chair scraped and Dumbledore came to his feet. He held his arms out in welcome.

"New students, a warm welcome to Hogwarts. Returning students, a warm welcome back. I will keep things short; a few quick announcements. First, I would like to offer a warm welcome to Professor Quirrell, who will be joining our staff in the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor."

There was a brief, half-hearted round of applause as a skinny turbaned man on the far left of the head's table rose halfway out of his chair and bowed awkwardly. Dumbledore waited for the applause to die down before continuing.

"Secondly, Mr. Filch would like to remind students that a complete list of banned items are on display outside in the entrance hall."

Hermione could hear, further down the table, a pair of red-haired twins and the dreadlocked boy who had nearly bowled her over on the train give a loud groan. One of them whispered loudly, "I was hoping he'd forget about that this year. Shame."

"- and, lastly, as always, the Forbidden Forest on the edge of the grounds is prohibited to all students."

"Hats off to a new year." Dumbledore raised his goblet and toasted the hall. "And tuck in," he smiled and sat back down.

At once, the empty platters in front of them filled with food.

Ron let out an exclamation of delight and immediately began loading his plate with a bit of everything around him, while Harry goggled as the table, looking as if he had never seen so to eat in his entire life.

"Wow, Madame Malkins wasn't kidding when she said Hogwarts would fatten me up," Harry said appreciatively, digging in to the shepherd's pie.

"Did she say that to you too?" Hermione asked him, laughing. "Well she sure wasn't wrong. I wonder how they magic all the food onto the tables all at once."

"Who cares?" Ron commented, his mouth full. "As long as there's more wherever it's coming from."

They laughed. Hermione was about to reach over across him to grab a platter of pudding, when the back of her neck prickled. She looked up instinctively and caught sight of a man at the head's table looking in the direction of herself and Harry.

He was seated next to Dumbledore, but he could not have looked any more different than the Headmaster. He had none of Dumbledore's festivity, but was instead dressed in robes of midnight black buttoned right to the base of his neck, and had shoulder-length black hair that fell in a sheet around his very pale face. He looked like he was wearing a cassock, and combined with his dour expression, he could have probably passed for a very angry priest in another setting.

Suddenly, the man's black eyes met hers and Hermione gasped.

* * *

Severus Snape hated September 1st.

He sat at the Head's table next to Dumbledore, staring moodily over the crowded Great Hall. Another year, another group of bright-eyed, overeager, troublemaking first-years to teach, no doubt just as incompetent as their older counterparts.

Probably more, he thought viciously. They did seem to get stupider by the year. If he took measurements, he could probably prove that theory as fact.

He had intentionally dressed earlier that evening in his most dour looking black robes and his most billowing black cloak. It was the same every year; he would look his most intimidating, give a glare or a snarl, and students would go scurrying across his dungeon classroom. He knew he looked and acted downright petrifying, and it brought him a deep satisfaction. He had a reputation to uphold amongst the students, after all.

This year though... he clenched the hand under the table in a tight grip. _The boy_ would be starting.

The doors to the Great Hall suddenly opened and Professor McGonagall was marching down the center aisle, a line of bedraggled, wet children behind her. They stopped near the front of the House tables, and stood huddled together, looking terrified. Snape scanned the group closely, looking for...

_Ah._

And there he was. There was no mistaking him.

Snape's lip curled at the sight of the black-haired bespectacled boy, glancing around the hall with a look of wide-eyed trepidation.

_He looked exactly like his despicable, good-for-nothing father._

Snape looked away quickly as a surge of emotion rose in him, one he had not felt in many years. He avoided looking at the boy again all throughout the sorting and Dumbledore's speech.

Food magically appeared on the platters before him and everyone in the hall dug in appreciatively. He moved his own meal around his plate with a fork mulishly as Professor Flitwick sat on his left, chatting his ear off. Snape didn't bother to tune in and find out what about.

"Mh... yes... quite right, Filius," he murmured and nodded his head randomly to give his colleague the impression he was listening.

In his boredom, his eyes slid over the Gryffindor table unintentionally and, again, found its mark.

Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.

The bane of his existence.

Snape sneered to himself. He had no doubt the boy who resembled his father so much in looks would resemble his character as well.

_Arrogant, inflated, useless toe-rag of a -_

He stopped himself from continuing that train of thought; it could lead nowhere good. Pulling his gaze away forcefully, he tried to divert his attentions elsewhere, and his eyes slid from the Potter boy to the girl sitting beside him, with whom he was chatting. Snape's eyes narrowed slightly.

There was...something slightly familiar about the girl, though he couldn't quite place it. He couldn't remember her name from the sorting. Harriet something, was it? He couldn't be sure; he hadn't been paying much attention. But she and Potter seemed rather chummy already, he noticed, as he looked between them.

Suddenly, as if the girl realized his examination of her and Potter, she looked up and straight at him. Their eyes made the briefest of contact, before _something_ slammed shut inside hers.

He blinked and sat up straighter in his chair. _Had she just...?_

He saw the girl quickly glance over at Dumbledore for one fast second. Snape blinked again, but she had already lowered her eyes and was back to talking to Potter.

_No… it must have just been his imagination_, Snape thought. _He really was getting old._

Reverting back to his well-practiced look of feigned boredom, he turned back to Professor Flitwick, who was still chattering on, having completely missed the exchange that occurred.

"– and I said, Peeves shouldn't even really be here, he's not even a ghost, why don't we as the teachers just rally together for a vote and _ban_ him from the castle, forever, eh? I _mean_ – "

He sighed.

God. Severus Snape really hated September 1st.

* * *

Hermione swiveled her gaze quickly and pretended to listen to Harry and Ron chatting at her about which classes they were looking forward to most, but her heart was thudding in chest and her throat was closing tightly in on itself.

_That man, he had tried to... he was a Legilimens!_

She had, in the briefest moment of their eye contact, felt the barest flicker of a mental probing and had panicked and reacted before she'd even realized what was happening. Her mental wall had gone up out of habit.

_Had he noticed? Dumbledore had been so firm about not revealing the Occlumency and Legilimency part...what if she already blown it and it was just the first night?_

"Percy…" she asked carefully to the older boy chewing on piece of bread across the table. "Who is that man, the one sitting next to Dumbledore on his right?"

"Hm?" Percy glanced up at the Head's table at her words. "Oh, that's Snape, the Potion's Master. Nasty fellow and a terrible temper. I'd avoid getting on his bad side, if I were you."

Yes...she thought, going back to her dinner, she would definitely be avoiding this Professor Snape with extreme dedication, but for an altogether different reason than Percy thought.


	7. Chapter 7 - Adjustment

**Chapter 7 - Adjustment**

The following morning, Hermione woke up early, pulling the curtains back on her four-poster bed and going to stand at the window to watch the sun make its slow progression up above the horizon and over the eastern tower. Her roommates – two first-year girls named Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil – were both still fast asleep.

She lifted open the lid of her trunk to pull out fresh robes and discovered, to her surprise, that her previously plain black robes had been imprinted with Gryffindor chest patches in the night. She dug the rest of her clothes out – several of her shirts and sweaters had them too, and a few of her ties had gone from black to striped scarlet and gold.

The magic of Hogwarts never failed to astound.

She tied one of the new striped ties on and surveyed herself in the corner mirror, satisfied. Her mum had always said red looked good on her. As she reached that thought, the memory of the words from the previous night floated back up.

_"__You know who could help you achieve greatness… send you straight to the annals of history… Slytherin…I insist." _

_No, _Hermione thought, pushing it firmly out of her mind. She was a Gryffindor, that's what the hat had chosen, and that's what she was going to be.

She checked the clock; it was only seven o' clock, and breakfast didn't start until eight. As she waited for the others to rise, she pulled a sheaf of parchment from her trunk, a quill, and a brand new bottle of ink. She uncorked it and dipped the nib of the quill in as she thought about what to write.

_Dear Mum and Dad, _

_I just want to write to tell you that I arrived just fine and I'm doing well. Hogwarts is really great so far. The castle is so magical; you wouldn't believe how amazing it looks. Last night, there was a magnificent feast and__ Professor Dumbledore said some nice words of welcome. Remember how I told you about how students are sorted into Houses? I was sorted into Gryffindor, which was the one I wanted anyways so I'm really happy. I've already made some friends – two boys who are also first years and in Gryffindor too. Anyway, I just realized I'm not sure how to get this letter to Helios, because he's vanished since we got off the train. I expect he's probably gone off to find some nice mouse to snack on. But since you're hopefully reading this letter, I guess I found him eventually. I hope you are both doing well. Make sure mum doesn't forget to water the tulips in the back garden. _

_Love, _

_Hermione_

She let the letter air dry for a few minutes before rolling it into a tight scroll. Where was Helios, anyhow? She hoped he would find his way back to her before the end of the day so she could post the letter to her parents. Knowing them, they were probably getting antsy already. The image of her mum nervously owl-watching on the front porch with binoculars flashed through her mind.

An hour later, she met up with Harry and Ron in the common room and the three of them made their way down with the rest of the Gryffindors to the Great Hall for breakfast. It was thankful that they had followed the crowd, which included a handful of older students, because Hermione was sure they certainly would not have made it to breakfast at all if they had attempted to find it alone.

Hogwarts was a veritable labyrinth, standing seven floors in addition to an unknown number of underground dungeons and a handful of towers to boot. Even worse, it seemed to be the castle's personal mission to confuse its inhabitants as much as possible. The staircases in the central hall, rising up through all seven floors, shifted constantly so that you were left going down into one hall, but ended up somewhere completely unfamiliar if you tried to go up the same staircase a few minutes later. Then, there were the suits of armor that never seemed to want to man their stations, but instead walked around clanging loudly and served as poor landmarks. Even the portraits lining every wall were of no help either; their inhabitants often moved around to visit their neighbors in other portraits, or simply disappeared completely for long periods of time.

They had just sat down at the Gryffindor table when Professor McGonagall swept down over them, a stack of parchment in hand. "Your class schedules," she said, handing them each a sheet and tapping it with her wand, from which spiraled curly black ink that patterned its way into words.

"Charms first," she remarked, peering over Harry's shoulder to check whether he had all the same classes; he did, and so did Ron.

"I hear it's good," said Ron, who had already piled his plate full of breakfast sausages. "Flitwick is a fair bloke, at least that's what Fred and George have told me."

Just then, a commotion from above their heads made them all look up; a hundred or more owls of all shapes and sizes flew into the Great Hall, circling to find their respective owners and dropping letters and packages on their heads. Helios descended onto the table in front of her, his flapping wings knocking over a gravy boat and getting gravy all over Ron's eggs. Ron merely shrugged and continued eating – "Not bad," he said experimentally, his mouth full. Helios pecked at a piece of toast off of Hermione's plate, and she held it up so he could take the entire thing in his beak.

"I was just looking for you," she said, taking the furled scroll from her bag and tying it to his leg. "For mum and dad."

He gave a muffled hoot, the toast still in his beak, and launched off into the air to join the other owls.

They headed off to Charms after breakfast, which they had in a large, airy, third-floor classroom. Flitwick was a tiny little wizard with a thick handlebar mustache who squeaked when he talked, and had to stand on a tall stack of books to see over the podium. He had them swishing their wands experimentally during the first class session, so they could get use the sensation. "Nuance," he squeaked, "is key in Charms wandwork!"

After lunch, they had History of Magic, which was taught by a ghost named Professor Binns. The story went that he had been so ancient, he'd fallen asleep in the faculty lounge, died, and got up again to continue teaching without so much as realizing what had happened. Professor Binns was very boring in his delivery. He had a low, monotonous voice that seemed to be at just the right timbre to put students to sleep. Harry and Ron, sitting beside her, had their heads propped on their arms and hadn't taken any notes in the last half hour. Hermione, on the other hand, seemed one of the few who could resist the lull of Binns' stupor, though she chalked it up to the fact that history was naturally one of her favorite subjects. She had read several books on modern magical history already, but Binns seemed intent on having them start all the way from the 10th century, which was all the better because she found the new material just as fascinating.

Their last class of the day on Monday was Defense against the Dark Arts. This was the class that the first years had been looking forward to the most, but it turned out to be somewhat of a joke. Quirrell, the skinny turbaned professor who has stood up at the welcome feast, was new this year, and the impression he gave was that he was as equally terrified of Hogwarts and everything in it as his first year charges. He had a slight stutter and set them all to reading _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection _without so much as a hint about if or when they would actually use their wands. In all, Professor Quirrell seemed much more keen on learning from books, and not so much in the practical nature of all that. It may have been for the best, thought Hermione, as she considered the bookish, nervous man carefully. One hard spell looked like it would knock him over and out flat. The Gryffindors sloped out of his classroom at the end of the period, looking just a bit put out.

The next day, Tuesday, brought a fresh wave of new subjects. After breakfast, they met up with a gaggle of first year Hufflepuffs coming out of a large ground-floor hallway, and made their way to Greenhouse No. 1 on the back lawn. The Herbology professor was called Sprout, appropriately enough, and she was a small, dumpy woman with flyaway frizzy hair and very ruddy cheeks. In their first class, she discussed greenhouse rules then set them in groups of threes to re-pot some supposedly innocent vines. There didn't seem to be anything too difficult about the task, Hermione thought, as they all pulled on some standard garden gloves and circled around a pot in groups of threes.

But it turned out that the 'innocent' vines were actually hiding something more sinister. The vine Neville Longbottom was working on with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan decided to wrap itself tenderly around his neck when he was busy scraping out its roots, and Professor Sprout had to wrestle it off of the poor choking Neville. She, Ron, and Harry took their task a lot more seriously after that.

Sweaty and smelling of fertilizer, the first-years trouped back to the castle for a quick lunch, then the Gryffindors were off to Transfiguration. It turned out Professor McGonagall was both the Transfiguration Professor and the Head of Gryffindor House, but neither role made her act any warmer toward the lot of them. As she had been the first night, McGonagall remained stern-faced and tight-lipped throughout her lengthy speech on the difficulty of Transfiguration magic. But at the end of the speech, she transfigured herself into a tabby cat and back again, and the class burst into applause appreciatively, lightening the mood.

They didn't have Potions class until the very last period on Tuesday. Potions was held in one of the many dark rooms in the dungeons, and the Gryffindors made their way down there on Tuesday afternoon with some trepidation. As they reached the end of the hall, they saw a group of students already milling about waiting for the classroom door to open.

"Oh look who it is, famous Potter come to grace us with his presence, has he?" Draco Malfoy's carrying voice could be heard eve from where they were down the hall. The group of Slytherins around him sniggered.

Hermione grit her teeth. _Wouldn't it just figure that they would have this class with the Slytherins of all people._

She felt Harry tense beside her. He had been getting a lot of attention ever since the welcome feast. People stopped to stare and whisper openly as they passed him in the halls, or else stood up to get a better look at him while he ate his meals at the Gryffindor table. Hermione thought it was all very rude, but mostly she felt indignant on his behalf. Couldn't anyone see that he disliked the attention? Was everyone oblivious to the fact that he was terribly shy and didn't rise to the fame? He would duck away whenever strangers called out to him, "Potter, hey Potter!" when he hurried through the halls to classes.

But no one didn't seem to notice, not even Ron. She had the nagging feeling that perhaps only she was well attuned to Harry's moods.

"Sod off Malfoy," Ron replied as they drew closer to the Slytherins.

"No, I don't think I will, Weasel," said Malfoy.

"Yeah. It's the lesser that usually makes way for his superiors, isn't it? Why don't you just sally on home, then Weasley," interjected a tall, dark haired boy behind Malfoy. Hermione thought his name was Theodore Nott, but she couldn't be sure. A pug-faced girl next to him who Hermione definitely remembered as Pansy Parkinson guffawed loudly at his words.

Ron flushed, but didn't say anything. Harry came to his defense, "Mind your own business and leave us alone," he said angrily, stepping forward. Malfoy matched his step with an ugly look on his face.

While Harry had been getting a lot of overall attention, he had definitely been getting _bad _attention from the Slytherins, especially Malfoy and his gang. Though it had been only two days since they'd arrived, Malfoy had developed a habit of insulting Harry, and sometimes Ron as well, whenever they passed in the halls. It seemed that Malfoy had taken Harry's rejection of his friendship that first night rather badly, though that didn't explain why the entirety of Slytherin house, too, seemed rather put off by Harry as a whole.

The door behind them suddenly banged open and there was a flurry of black, billowing robes as a sallow faced, tall figure cast a shadow over all of them from the doorway.

"Not…fighting are we?" Snape said in a silky, dangerous tone of voice. His black eyes were the color of bottomless night and were just as cold.

"No, Professor Snape. Of course not," said Malfoy, who had immediately adopted a voice of brown nosing politeness.

"…Good," Snape said slowly, narrowing his eyes with distrust at Harry in particular. "Get in."

They shuffled into the classroom, the two houses naturally segregating themselves on separate sides of the desk and chairs.

"Now," said Snape, sweeping back to the front of the room. "Take out your books. We shall have role call."

When he reached Harry's name, he gave a slight pause and an unmistakable sneer. He finished the last name – "Zabini, Blaise" – and let the parchment snap itself back up in a tight scroll.

"Now… let's see if you are anything like the usual bunch of useless, dim-witted dunderheads I usually have to teach," he said coldly. He suddenly turned around very fast towards the Gryffindor side of the room.

"POTTER! Tell me, what would you get from an infusion of wormwood and powdered root of asphodel?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to Hermione. "Erm – I don't know, sir…"

"No?" asked Snape, his lips curling into a sneer. "Celebrity status is an empty title, clearly. Let's try again, Potter. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"I don't know, Professor…" Harry said quietly after a moment's silence, his cheeks turning slightly red.

"No? Nothing ringing a bell in that empty head of yours?" Snape said viciously. "One last chance, Potter. Tell me, what is a bezoar?"

By the inflection in his voice and the very poorly hidden look of loathing on his face, Hermione could tell Snape was not questioning Harry with the intention of getting an answer; he was picking on him, and very cruelly. Harry, in the meantime, was sinking into his chair and staring between Snape and the potions book lying on his desk with bewilderment.

She hesitated. _A bezoar. There had been an entire chapter on it in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. _She knew the answer, and desperately wanted to pass it on to Harry to help him diffuse the situation, but she didn't know how without Snape seeing, and she was positive Snape would not take kindly to her attempt to do so if he found out.

"It looks like Mr. Potter couldn't be bothered to crack open a book before he arrived," Snape said to the class loudly, his lip curling. "Perhaps he thought he could rely on his fame to _dazzle_ his professors and not have to do an ounce of work. Well let me tell you very clearly, Potter. _I will not be one of those professors!_" He practically snarled those last words, spittle flying from his lips and over Harry's open book.

Hermione wanted to say something, anything, to take Snape's attention off of poor Harry, but she couldn't risk drawing the irate man's attention to herself, not after what had happened on her first night. She still didn't know whether he had realized what had happened then, but she prayed he hadn't. In either case, it was in her best interest if he didn't notice her existence at all.

It seemed, however, that Snape had other plans. He turned from looming over Harry towards Hermione so fast she thought he would have cricked his neck.

"_MS. GRANGER!_"

Hermione jumped in her chair. _Shoot, had he known what she was thinking?_

"Did _you _bother to crack open a book, or are you just as foolishly egotistical as Mr. Potter here?"

It was apparently a rhetorical question because he didn't bother to wait for her reply. "_Explain to me what a bezoar is."_

She blinked up at him while her brain kicked into high gear. _What was she supposed to say?_ She had read a lot about bezoars. Dumbledore's words came back to her: _"Limit yourself in showing that you know any more than what you're being taught in classes." _The simplest, most textbook answer was safest, surely.

"A bezoar is a stone found in the stomach of a goat that can cure most poisons," she replied, trying to tamper down the waver in her voice. His black eyes narrowed at her, and she suddenly felt quite fearful in knowing what was coming.

It took an enormous amount of self-control to keep her mental barriers down when every impulse was to set them up, and high. She wiped her mind completely and presented a white blankness even as she maintained eye contact and felt his mind probing around the edge of hers, just barely.

He pulled his gaze away, having seemingly discovered nothing, then turned around to face the class at large, saying nothing.

No one moved.

"_Well why aren't you all writing that down?" _There was a flurry of activity as everyone dived to grab parchment.

Hermione let out an internal sigh of relief as she ducked her head and pretended to be straightening the feathers on her quill.

_Thank God, he didn't find anything. It was a close call._

Snape remained in a foul mood the rest of class, although thankfully he didn't interrogate anyone else further; they scribbled furiously as he lectured at them about the delicacy and potency of Potions all the way until the bell sounded signaling the end of class.

"He's a greasy old bat, Harry. That was completely unfair," Ron started loudly as they made their way up the stairs from the dungeon ten minutes later. Harry didn't reply but sped up in front of them, his head ducked. Hermione touched Ron on the arm and shook her head slightly, and he fell silent.

They made their way back to the Gryffindor common room to drop off their books, then went back down to the Great Hall for dinner. Harry was still quiet as they sat down and started filling their plates.

"Why the long faces?" Fred asked cheerily, plopping into the seat next to them (or was it George? Hermione still couldn't tell them apart; they were so similar in every way).

"We just had our first Potions lesson with Snape… and the Slytherins," said Ron gloomily.

"Ah. Explains a lot. What happened exactly?" the other twin asked, taking the seat across from his brother.

She and Ron turned to look at Harry. "It was awful. He interrogated me in front of the entire class, and I didn't know any of the answers," Harry said quietly.

"Oy Harry, don't mind Snape. He's a right git to any student who's not in his own House," said Fred reassuringly.

"Yeah. Seriously, he's middle name is favoritism," chorused George. "Well, second-middle name. His first middle name is 'Greaseball'."

Ron snorted into his pudding.

"Yeah. No, you're right. He can stuff it," Harry replied with false bravado. He tried to put on a smile at Ron and the twins, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Hermione could see he was trying to pretend in front of the Weasleys what happened in Potions that afternoon didn't bother him, but it was very clear to her that it bothered him a great deal.

Later that evening in the Gryffindor common room, the three of them sat completing their homework at a table by the fire. After a few hours, the room had cleared as people went off to bed. Ron had just gone up the stairs to the boys dormitory with a huge yawn, but instead of following him, Harry moved from the table to sit on the couch in front of the fire. Hermione packed her books back into her bag and looked over at him with concern.

She went and sat down next to him in front of the fire. He was staring moodily into the burning embers.

"Harry..."

"Hmm?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know, you just seem a bit…" she wasn't sure how to end the sentence. "Distracted."

Harry didn't say anything for a few long seconds as she continued to stare at him closely. The reflection of the fire was incredibly clear in the panes of his round glasses.

"I don't understand. Why does he hate me so much?" he suddenly burst out.

"You heard Fred and George at dinner. It sounds like he doesn't like anyone much aside from Slytherins. He's just a horrid person."

"No…he was definitely picking on me specifically today. What did I ever do to him? I've never even met him. I'm not imagining all this, am I Hermione?" he asked her desperately.

"No, I…noticed it too. I don't know why singled you out. But if it makes you feel better, he doesn't seem to like me much either."

"But he just seems to really _hate_ me."

Hermione sighed. "I don't know why either, Harry. But you shouldn't let it get to you. He's just one teacher. Besides, why would anyone want to be in the good graces of - in Ron's words, 'a greasy old bat' - like him, anyway?" she said, trying to lighten the mood.

He just heaved another sigh.

"Come on Harry, cheer up. You know, this could really be a blessing in disguise."

He looked at her incredulously. "_How could it possibly?"_

"Well because it's given us the mission statement of our newest club – The Hogwarts League of Snape-Haters. I'll be Head Basher, and you can be… Director of Revenge Tactics, or something," she said, repressing a smile. "Didn't you know this was our first official meeting?"

Harry laughed, despite himself. He looked much more cheerful. "Thanks, Hermione. You're really the best."

* * *

The week passed in a blur of classes, new faces, and getting desperately lost in various nooks and hallways, and before Hermione knew it, it was Friday afternoon and she had almost been at Hogwarts a whole week.

Everything had been going fairly well, all things considered, aside from that hiccup in Potions and the short-lived nasty intrusions by Malfoy's gang. He really was terribly annoying, although Hermione did have to admit (very reluctantly to herself) – he _was_ smart. She only had Potions with him, but from what she could tell, he fielded all of Snape's questions just fine and wouldn't have even needed the favoritism to do well in the class. In yesterday afternoon's session, Snape had set them to attempting a beginners calming draught, and by the end of class, only hers and Malfoy's vials had been anywhere close to the bright teal color the book had described. Others, like Goyle and Neville Longbottom, had produced what looked like a thick black tar that was definitely not liquid. Maybe Malfoy was just naturally sharp, or maybe he had taken private lessons when he was younger. Well…it didn't matter so much either way, because no amount of intelligence made up for a terrible character, Hermione thought.

Although she would have expected her classmates who had grown up in wizarding families to have a tremendous head start, it didn't seem to be quite the case. In fact, most of them knew much less than she did, and for some strange reason, many of them couldn't even get the hang of basic spells. In their last Charms class, Ron had managed to accidentally incinerate his feather that he was supposed to be levitating, and by the end of the period, only Hermione had successfully levitated her feather out of all her peers. On her other side, Harry had been concentrating so hard on his feather, he'd looked like he was giving himself gallstones. This had surprised her tremendously. It was really very easy… just a swish, a flick, and "Wingardium leviosa," and a rush of magic through her arm and wand and the feather just went up by itself.

There was only one class that the first-years had not yet had, and that was Astronomy, the first session of which was to be held tonight on top of the Astronomy tower. Since it was at such a late time, Astronomy classes were taken jointly by all the students from the year from all four houses.

Harry and Ron had been talking excitedly all throughout dinner about the notice that had gone up earlier that evening on the common room bulletin board. An introductory flying lesson was going to be held for interested first years the Saturday afternoon after next. They were still talking about it as they made their way up the many steps of the Astronomy Tower ten minutes from 9 o' clock.

"You're going to come try it out too, aren't you Hermione?" Harry asked.

She hesitated. She didn't much like heights. "I'm not sure. I don't think it's really my thing. I'm not very sporty."

"Oh, please come, it's going to be great. I just can't wait," said Harry excitedly. She was glad the idea of Quidditch was at least able to cheer him up and take his mind off the continued disastrous potions lessons they were having.

"Gather round, gather round now," a square-jawed, stern-looking witch shooed the crowd of students to a section of the tower. She introduced herself as Professor Sinistra.

"Astronomy," she began, "is a very delicate art. The stars are and have been an integral part of understanding and reading magic since the inception of magic itself. Now to be clear, some fields of study attempt to read the stars for prophetic or forecasting reasons; that is not the purpose of this class. Here, our goal is simply knowledge acquisition. To understand what and where the stars are, the great constellations, how they are patterned and how they were derived. As you are well aware, our schedule is very unique. We can only stargaze at night, and so we will meet once a week at this time to do so. The other class sessions will be held during regular class hours, and we will meet in the library or a classroom for work sessions."

"Not only schedule, but the structure of this class will be very different from your other classes as well. This class will be centered around one large project that will last the entire year – your final grade will reside solely on the performance and quality of this project that you turn in. Fail to work diligently on it, or slow to make progress, and you will most certainly do poorly. Additionally, you should all be made aware that this project involves _teamwork. _I will be pairing you off. Each pair will submit one project, and the same grade will go to both students. And - " she said with a glower at all of them, "I will _not _be having any nonsense where this is concerned. You will not be allowed to change partners, so be sure to swallow your differences and make nice with each other for the sake of your continued education at Hogwarts, am I understood?"

They all nodded, wide-eyed at the upfrontness of her introductory speech. Professor Sinistra was very intimidating.

"Good. Now scatter yourself across the tower and set up your telescopes. As our first practice assignment, I want you all to sketch the outline of Ursa Major and the North Star, labeling all other stars that comprise it as well, to be turned in to me by the end of class. You may find a helpful reference in your textbooks on page 25."

She, Harry, and Ron moved to set up their equipment in a relatively unoccupied corner of the tower, but snippets of "- and you have to watch for tail windspeed," and "the best broom steering-" kept intruding on her concentration, so that five minutes later, she had picked up her telescope and bookbag and moved around the corner from the two boys, who hadn't seemed to notice her abrupt departure.

She readjusted her telescope stand in her new spot and took out a piece of parchment, ready to finally get started on mapping Ursa Major.

"Had to escape Potty and the Weasel, did you?"

Of all of her solo encounters with Draco Malfoy, she didn't recall a single one where he hadn't snuck up on her, unannounced and uninvited. It seemed to be a bad habit of his, although Hermione couldn't for the life of her figure out why he ever wanted to chat. He didn't seem to have anything other than insults in his repertoire, and she certainly didn't have anything to say to him, the infuriating prat.

Hermione pulled her face away from the telescope and glared at Draco Malfoy's blonde head, shining, as always, brightly under the full moon above them. To her irritation, he was setting up his telescope right next to hers.

"Go away, Malfoy," she said tersely.

"Tut tut," he said as he adjusted the height of the telescope stand. "Seems Weaslebee's bad manners are rubbing off on you too."

"Why do you always have to make fun of Harry and Ron? Just leave us alone."

"Ah, but it's such... good fun," he murmured as he pressed his eye to his telescope and tilted it a few degrees higher.

She was about to lift up her own equipment to move it further down the balustrade away from him when he said very suddenly, "Polaris is bright tonight."

She paused, her academic curiosity warring with the very strong desire to leave his presence as fast as possible. Before she had done anything at all, however, Professor Sinistra's voice ran from behind them.

"Oh excellent, look at this teamwork right here, and between houses to boot. Wonderful, wonderful…well I'll just pair off you two, then, for the final project. Bravo on setting an example for the other students.

Hermione blanched. Malfoy spun around so quickly his telescope had tilted over on two legs and threatened to fall. He scrambled to right it before it shattered on the stone under their feet.

"But Professor-", she began in protest, but in the moment of distraction by Malfoy's telescope, the tall woman had already moved on to pair together two Hufflepuffs further down, Hannah Abbott and Ernie Macmillan.

She stared after Professor Sinistra's retreating form in horror.

The woman must be joking. Of all possible options, she would be paired with the one person she had so far disliked the most out of everyone at Hogwarts? The entire first year class from all the Houses were here, tonight, and she just had to be paired with Malfoy?

"This is all your fault!" she accused Malfoy, spinning around. "I can't believe I'm going to be stuck with you for an entire year!"

"Aw, why not? I'm so offended," he mocked in his usual sarcastic tone, though his expression contrasted with his words. He didn't look happy at all.

Hermione flushed in her anger. Good God, he was so frustrating. She seized her telescope and began packing it up, intent on moving as far away from the object of her irritation as fast as possible, in case Sinistra decided to come back around and pair them up for something else too.

"At least we'll get a good grade on the project," she muttered darkly under her breath, turning around to balance the telescope on her leg as she folded its stand into a more manageable shape for carrying.

"Oho! Is that a compliment for my intellectual prowess that I hear, Granger?"

"Not on your life, Malfoy" she ground out viciously.

Hermione seized her telescope and her bag unceremoniously and stomped off, leaving him standing by himself looking irate at the edge of the tower.

* * *

"You _what?"_

Harry's mouth had dropped open and he was staring at her from across the breakfast table, looking horrified.

"I told you. I'm paired with Malfoy for the astronomy project," Hermione replied.

"That's…that's not possible. Hermione, that terrible!" Harry said looking as if someone he knew had died, his plate of kippers and eggs in front of him quite forgotten in light of Hermione's tragic news.

"You're telling me," she intoned as she buttered her toast with an air of resignation.

"Ask to be put with someone else. You can't be stuck with Malfoy!"

"You heard Sinistra, she's not going to entertain any partner switching. And _someone_ has to be partnered with him, I suppose it may as we'll be me. Take one for the team, as it were. I can handle him, but I doubt someone like Neville would last for half a class period as Malfoy's partner."

As if on cue, Neville, who was sitting a few seats down from them at the Gryffindor table, suddenly fell over backwards as he scrambled to keep a grip on a large red glass ball he had just unwrapped from its brown paper packaging. The owl that had just delivered the glass ball to Neville gave a loud squawk at the disturbance and sent orange juice flying everywhere as it made to rapidly get back into the air.

Harry looked dubious at her words. "I still don't like it… it means he's going to get more chances to be awful to you in private. Maybe I should study with you, you know-"

Hermione sighed and bit into her toast with a crunch. "It's really not necessary, Harry. It'll be fine, it's just schoolwork. I can handle myself." She tried to change the subject. "Where's Ron?"

Still frowning slightly, Harry said, "He went off this morning with his brothers. They got a letter in the common room, from home I think. I went on ahead. Oh, there he is now."

Ron was hurrying down the aisle towards them, Fred and George behind him, all of them looking excited.

"What's up, Ron?" Harry asked, as Ron drew close.

"We just got a letter from mum," he said, his eyes alight. "Apparently dad won some huge prize pool at the Ministry. Three hundred galleons!"

Harry looked impressed. "Wow! Congratulations, Ron!"

"Yeah," Ron said, still looking disbelieving. Fred and George came up behind him, both wearing huge grins.

"What's your family going to do with the winnings?" Hermione asked.

"Well, mum also wrote that we're taking a family trip to go visit Charlie in Romania this Christmas, so I expect most of the money is going to go to that. Charlie – you know, my second-oldest brother – he's studying dragons there," Ron explained.

"Oh this is going to be just _perfect,_" Fred said dreamily gazing off into space. "I can just imagine padlocking Percy in with one of the dragons." He sighed happily.

"You… wouldn't really, would you?" Hermione asked uncertainly. "Dragons are really dangerous."

"Oh I'm sure he'll be fine," George replied breezily clapping a hand on her shoulder. "We just want to have a bit of good fun. See Percy running around screaming his head off and waving his Prefect's badge at the dragon is my idea of a perfect Christmas."

She, Ron and Harry laughed.

"Anyways, we're off. There's mischief to be had and it's going to make itself, is it now?" Fred winked at them. "Oh yeah, I expect there's going to be a piece about Dad's win in the Daily Prophet tomorrow, so keep an eye out."

Sure enough, the next morning, when the usual flurry of owls flew into the Great Hall, Helios circled Hermione's head and dropped a copy of the Daily Prophet onto her lap. She unfurled it to see the words "Ministry Employee Win's Annual Grand Prize", and under it, a picture of Ron's family on the third page, smiling and waving up at her. She could tell it was not taken recently - Ron definitely looked younger, probably ten or so.

She passed the paper to Ron, and to her surprise, he groaned. "I can't believe they used this picture...its ancient," he complained, making a face. "From last Christmas. Aunt Muriel was all over me."

Hermione and Harry peered over at the page on both sides of Ron. Indeed, Photo-Ron, with Scabbers on his shoulder, was looking extremely uncomfortable and was edging away from a little old lady who was attempting to grab his face in a kiss. As they watched, Photo-Ron made a desperate duck for freedom, and Scabbers almost flew off his shoulders, hanging on just barely by his little front paws sunk into the weave of Ron's maroon sweatshirt

Hermione looked closely at the rest of the picture. There were Fred and George as well, and Percy, looking as pompous as ever. Two older teenage boys stood behind them – they must be Bill and Charlie. On the other side was a tall wiry man with glasses, his arms around a short, matronly looking woman. Beside them stood a little girl. All of them had unmistakably red hair.

Hermione skimmed the article over Ron's shoulder and read, "Arthur Weasley, from the Ministry of Magic's Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, was drawn as the grand prize winner of the Ministry's annual prize pool. Arthur and wife Molly reside in Devon. They have seven children, four of whom are currently attending Hogwarts."

"Congratulations again, Ron," Harry said to his friend, grinning. "Your family deserves it."

"I still can't believe it. Dad never wins _anything. _And now three-hundred galleons…" Ron pinched himself. "Nope. Still true," he said grinning.

As Harry and Ron chatted, Hermione gaze back down at the photo of Ron's family. They looked like the picture-perfect big happy family. She knew from Ron's accidental comments that the Weasleys were not very well off. The gold would certainly be a big help to them. Looking at the beaming, kind faces of the family looking up at her from the page, she thought they definitely deserved it.

* * *

***A/N***

Can you guess where this is all heading? Things will pick up next Chapter ;)

R&R please! Much thanks.


	8. Chapter 8 - House Elves & Histories

*****A/N*****

06/01/2014 - The following chapters have been updated: Chapter 7, the Astronomy scene. Chapters 2 and 5, light edits. A quick skim should get everyone up to speed.

R&R please, much thanks.

* * *

**Chapter 8 - House Elves & Histories**

The day Hermione discovered the Hogwarts Library, she had wandered off by herself during a free afternoon period, schoolbag in tow after leaving the Gryffindor common room where Ron had been teaching Harry how to play exploding snap. The small 'bangs' coming from across the table had been doing nothing for her concentration, and she wanted to finish Snape's potions essay before the end of the weekend. But on her way out, she had become sidetracked and instead had roamed the halls for a good long while, walking past empty classrooms and admiring several hallways of baroque era moving portraits with silly dandies in white wigs before arriving in a large, open hall. A line of students were filing out from a set of massive double doors in the middle of the hall, which were, themselves, situated between two wall-sized portraits of scholarly looking wizards. Hermione slipped through the heavy doors just as they were closing behind a gaggle of fifth-year Ravenclaw girls, and entered the most magnificent room she had ever been in.

Shelves... as far as the eye could see. And the unmistakable, wonderful smell of old books.

Hermione drifted between the shelves in awe, stopping every few feet to read the titles on a couple of spines, or else running a few finger across the dusty tops of the tomes. Every once in awhile she glimpsed the shadowed, hunched forms of other students – mostly older – huddled at desks, whispering to each other, reading, or chewing their quills as they pored of parchments and open books before them.

_"DON'T TOUCH IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BORROW!"_ came a loud hiss behind her, and she whipped around quickly.

Before her stood a slightly hunched, pinched-faced woman who had a nose that looked like beak when partnered with her extremely thin lips. She had an old hat perched on her dark hair, which was pulled into a severe bun, and wore wool robes of some indistinguishable puce-like color. She matched the library well in that she looked just as stuffy as some of the oldest books there. A small brass nameplate pinned to her dusty robes read, "Madam Pince, Librarian."

Hermione cowered slightly under Madam Pince's wrathful glare.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't - I'll just go over there," she whispered apologetically, and ducked away from the librarian into a dark alcove with a small circular wooden table and a pair of chintz armchairs. She made a pointed note to step away from Madam Pince's precious shelves as she felt the woman's sharp eyes follow her every move. She deposited her books in one armchair and herself in the other, she saw the slightly distorted shadow of the librarian finally move away to another section of the library. Madam Pince took her sentry duties very seriously, it seemed.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be away from the hawk-like librarian, and pulled out her half-finished potions essay and set to work. An hour later, she was just putting the finishing touches on the paper, still situated in her little alcove, when she felt the back of her neck prickle again.

_Why did this keep happening to her?_

She stopped moving her quill and flicked her gaze discreetly at the shelf in front of her without raising her head. She didn't want to alert whoever was there that their presence had been noticed…but after watching the dark shadows for a few long seconds, there didn't seem to be anything amongst the books –

Just as she had thought this, she saw them - a pair of large, violet eyes blinking dramatically at her from between two enormous volumes of The Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Hermione gave a cry of alarm and pushed herself back from the table, her chair legs screeching loudly against the hardwood floor.

The creature with the giant eyes zipped from behind its hiding spot and came out to stand in the light, making loud "shushing" sounds as it approached Hermione's table.

"Little Miss, shh! Shh! No need to be afraid."

Hermione stared at the creature in shock. "What _are_ you?" she blurted out before she could help herself, and only after realized how rude it must have sounded. But the creature seemed unfazed.

"I is a house elf, Little Miss. I is Tansy, a house elf at Hogwarts."

Hermione had never heard of a house elf before. It was a strange looking little thing. About the height and size of a small child, with very knobbly looking limbs, large bright eyes, a long nose, and floppy bat-like ears. Hermione stared at the elf's garb with interest - it was wearing what looked with a pillowcase with arm holes made out of very white and crisp linen, with the Hogwarts emblem stamped on the chest.

"Tansy is bringing Little Miss a letter from Professor Dumbledore," the elf said as it reached into a pocket of it's pillowcase outfit and pulled out a small roll of parchment tied with a red ribbon.

"Oh, erm- thank you," Hermione said, taking the thin roll of parchment from the elf's outstretched hands and unfurling it. She read through the letter quickly.

_Hermione,_

_Please pay a visit to the twin gargoyles on the 7th floor South Hall this Saturday at 5:00PM. I would love to hear about your first two weeks at Hogwarts._

_Sincerely,_

_A.D._

_PS: Fall always reminds me of my favorite candies._

Hermione finished reading and looked up to find the elf was staring at her again, wide-eyed, but now there were tears pooling in her giant eyes.

"Erm – are you all right?" Hermione asked with concern. Had she done something? Maybe the elf had been more offended by her earlier question than she'd thought.

But the elf just gave her a watery smile as she dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her pillowcase. "Yes, Tansy is excellent, Little Miss. Just excellent. Tansy is... Tansy is just so _happy_!"

Hermione wasn't sure what to say. She felt slightly awkward standing there while the elf looked at her with what looked very closely like adoration. "Well…thank you for the letter," Hermione gestured with her hand holding the scroll. "Is there anything else I can do for you? Can I get you a tissue or something?"

For fresh tears had just come to Tansy's eyes and she was now sniffling softly as she continued to stare unblinkingly at Hermione with those strange, violet eyes.

"Oh no, Little Miss, Tansy is just fine. Little Miss has grown up to be such a pretty and polite and kind young lady, oh Tansy is so very proud…"

Hermione looked at her curiously at those words. "…How do you mean? Have we met before?"

The elf suddenly clapped both hands over her mouth and her purple eyes grew huge. "Tansy-Tansy is not knowing what the Little Miss is talking about."

"You said, just now, about how I've grown up very well. What did you mean by that?" Hermione asked the elf intently.

"Tan-Tansy isn't knowing what the Little Miss is talking about, Tansy is not supposed to say... "

The elf suddenly looked terribly frightened, seized the nearest book lying on the shelf behind her, and started hitting herself over the head with it. Unfortunately for her, it was one of the massive volumes of The Encyclopaedia Britannica that she had been hiding behind earlier, and one knock on the head sent her flying to the ground.

"What are you doing? Stop it!" Hermione cried out in alarm and wrenched the book from the elf's hands, almost dropping it herself. _Merlin's beard, was this a book or a boulder?_ she thought desperately as she heaved the offending volume onto the desk and knelt down next to the dazed elf.

"Are you alright? Why were you hitting yourself?"

"Tansy is punishing herself, Little Miss, Tansy almost says things she wasn't supposed to!"

The elf began to wail loudly and it was Hermione's turn to shush her as she patted the elf on the shoulder awkwardly. She didn't want Madam Pince to walk in on her so soon after she had just left her with that unspoken threat.

"Sorry, forget I said anything," Hermione said hastily, trying to calm the elf.

"It's not Little Miss's fault," sniffled Tansy. She rubbed her face on her pillowcase again and patted it down. "Please forgive Tansy for that, Little Miss. Please forget it happened it all. Tansy has to go now, goodbye, goodbye!" She gave a little half-bow then with a small pop, simply vanished.

Hermione, surprised at the elf's sudden departure, slowly lifted herself up from where she was still knelt on the ground. _What a peculiar exchange…and what an even more peculiar creature. What had the elf meant to say, but couldn't? Also, couldn't you not Disapparate within Hogwarts? Maybe elves didn't have the same sort of magical limitations as humans…_

Hermione felt disconcerted. The more time she spent at Hogwarts, the more secrets there seemed to be surrounding the school, and her. Her curiosity made the mystery of them all the harder to bear. She stuffed her completed essay and books into her bag and quickly made her way through the shelves and out of the library, intent on finding Ron to ask him more about house elves.

* * *

At five o' clock on Saturday evening, Hermione found herself standing between two unfriendly looking stone gargoyles on the seventh floor South Corridor, having just waved off a nervous Ron and Harry on their way to the first-year Quidditch lesson. She'd made her excuses for skipping the lesson by saying she was afraid of heights and that she had homework to do. Harry had really wanted her to go with them, had pestered her all morning, but there was nothing to be done. The lesson coincided with Dumbledore's meeting and she absolutely would not be missing that. She'd finally shook Harry and Ron off by saying she'd use the time to get a head start on their Transfiguration homework, and help them with their own homework later in the evening.

"Hello?" she asked the gargoyles tentatively, feeling silly. Unlike the suits of armor, these castle decorations didn't seem to have the slightest inclination for life or movement.

They ignored her, predictably.

"Um… I'm here to see Professor Dumbledore," Hermione declared.

No response. Did the one of the left look frostier than it had before? Surely she was imagining things.

"Open!" she tried again uselessly.

Hermione sighed. She pulled the letter out from her pocked. Had he just forgotten to write instructions about how to actually get into his office? That seemed very out of character for him.

She skimmed the short letter again – there was really nothing here, all it said was when and where to meet… but the last line caught her eye.

_PS: Fall always reminds me of my favorite candies._

She had chalked the random endnote up to Dumbledore's usual, unexplainable eccentricity, but could it be…?

"Why would he bring up lemon drops – Oh!"

The two stone gargoyles had sprung apart at her last words to reveal an open archway and a spiraling stone staircase behind it. She took a step and the staircase began moving on its own, spiraling its way back up with a loud scraping noise. It stopped with a small jolt after a few rotations and she found herself facing a heavy walnut door. Hermione knocked lightly.

"Enter," came a muffled reply from within.

Hermione entered into a tall circular room covered in framed portraits of all sizes. Their occupants were all dozing, their soft snores intermingling with the low purrs coming from a red bird with a long red feathered tail, sleeping with its head under it's wing in the corner. Strange devices on the desk and side tables whirled from all sides. The office was small, but cozy, and altogether very Dumbledore.

The same man stood and smiled as she entered, magically pulling out a comfortable armchair across his desk for her.

"How are you, my dear?" he asked as they both sat.

"I'm doing well," Hermione said. "Adjusting."

"And how fares your first two weeks?"

"Good. Classes are good. Gryffindor is great. And I've made some friends."

"Which subject do you like the best so far?"

_Well Potions was definitely out. And Astronomy too, for that matter_, Hermione thought.

"I like Transfiguration," she replied finally. "Professor McGonagall is a very good teacher, fair, if not a bit stern… and the magic is very interesting."

"Ah!" Dumbledore said, his face alighting with interest. "I used to teach Transfiguration, before I became Headmaster. Very intriguing field of magic, I quite agree. How are you doing with it, the new spells?"

"I can do most of them just fine. Nothing has really been an issue so far, although…" Hermione hesitated. "I've noticed that the other students, even the Pureblood ones, have a harder time with some of the magic. And not just Transfiguration, I mean. In all of the classes. I know you told me I could do things the other students may not be able to, but…well, I wasn't expecting you to mean so generally."

"Hm…it's a good question," Dumbledore mused as he plucked a lemon drop from a small ceramic bowl sitting on the corner of his desk. "You are able to learn spells more easily than your peers, because of our own lessons of course, but partly, I believe, because you just have a greater natural ability to control your magic." He gestured for her to help herself to the candy.

Hermione wasn't sure what to say in response, so she remained silent as she took a lemon drop.

"Tell me," said Dumbledore abruptly, but still in his kind voice. "Have you had any issues with masking your magic like I asked? Any incidents, or… suspicious persons?"

Hermione froze with the lemon drop halfway to her mouth. _How had he known?_

Well there was no avoiding it now.

"I think…I think Professor _Snape_ may have had an inkling, at the beginning of the year. But I don't think he suspects anything anymore," she finished quickly.

"Ah yes, I would have thought as much," Dumbledore replied with a strange look of satisfaction. "Severus is a sharp one. But you say he doesn't suspect any more?" Hermione nodded. "Good, good…keep me updated on how things progress on that front. But everything else sounds fine, you seem to be doing well in classes, acclimated to the castle…" he trailed off.

A pregnant pause.

"And I noticed you've made friends with Harry Potter."

"Yes…he's very nice."

Dumbledore perched his chin on his hands and gave her his usual unfathomable look.

"Good. Harry Potter could use a friend like you."

"…Professor?"

"I only mean that a good strong friendship can be a very positive force in life. And he has had a hard one. Fame can be a difficult burden to bear sometimes, and even worse when carried alone."

She nodded her agreement. "Yes...I agree. He seems to be handling it as well as can be expected, though. I think he's a good person. I like him very much."

"Professor, I wanted to ask. I've - I've just been very curious," she said slowly, knowing she was about to tread in possibly very sensitive territory. "Do you know anything about Harry's past? About what happened to him when he was a baby?"

Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at her. "Well let's start here. What do _you_ know of Harry Potter?"

"Not any more than what everyone knows, what is written in the books. That Voldemort - " She backtracked. "I mean, You-Know-Who - "

"No," Dumbledore interrupted her. "Use his name. Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself. We mustn't give him the satisfaction."

Hermione stared at him. What a strange thing for Dumbledore to say…it wasn't the first time he'd sounded as if he were still at war.

"I - alright. _Voldemort_… went to Harry's house when Harry was only a baby and… killed his parents. And he tried to kill Harry too, but something happened and he couldn't, and so he disappeared and Harry lived. But no one seems to know why. What exactly happened, Professor, do you know? Did Harry really defeat him as only a baby?"

"Hmm…" Dumbledore replied noncommittally. "And Harry has not shared anything else with you?"

She shook her head. "No. He says he doesn't remember."

"No, I expect he wouldn't."

He said nothing, but continued to suck on his lemon drop as he considered her carefully, as if wondering to himself how much to reveal.

"It's hard to say. No one can truly know what happened that night other than the very people present during the incident. The one, Harry, was too young and has no recollection of the matter, and the other, well…is not available to tell us, is he?" Dumbledore gave her an ironic smile.

"But, over the years, I have been able to piece together some theories of my own. I believe Harry's parents' sacrifice of their lives triggered an ancient protective magic that shielded him from Voldemort's curse. So the unfolding of events was not so much due to anything Harry _did_ in particular, but a byproduct of an accidental, automatic, and deep magic."

"Really?" Hermione asked surprised.

"That is my belief, although I cannot be sure. There was much strange magic that occurred that night, and this type of old magic is hard to discern and even harder to understand."

"Why did Voldemort go after Harry and his parents in the first place?"

"Why the Dark Side went after the Potters is no secret; their alliance to the Light was reason enough. That period was full of terror and disappearances and deaths wreaked by Voldemort's followers, the Death Eaters. Many on our side lived in fear of their lives daily. However, Lord Voldemort rarely came out himself…he usually left the more unpleasant tasks to others. He preferred to control things from a distance, shrouded in mystery, that was his modus operandi. But his mark was everywhere. Over doorsteps and rooftops, and when you saw it, you knew death had visited there that night," Dumbledore said quietly, his gaze afar.

Hermione didn't say anything as she took in his words and tried to imagine the kind of oppressive environment he described.

"However, why Lord Voldemort himself went after the Potters that night… that is a mystery, indeed."

"And what happened to Harry afterwards?"

"He was sent to live with his aunt and uncle, although I'm not sure he's had the happiest of childhoods with them. They are magic fearing folk. His history and his magical abilities are not appreciated there."

"Yes, I wondered that too," Hermione said. "He doesn't seem very happy. Why does he have to live with them, then? Why couldn't he have been… adopted by more pleasant people, like I was?" she asked hesitantly.

"Because as misunderstanding as they may be, they are his blood relatives, and blood is a powerful protector."

"I see," Hermione said quietly. "Does he have to continue living there?"

"Yes, until he is of age, to garner the full benefit of the blood protection. Hermione," Dumbledore leaned forward. "Please do not tell any of this to Harry. He will find out, about all this, his past, in due course on his own."

"I won't. Of course I won't. Although I feel very sorry for him," she said quietly. "To have that happen to you as a baby and then have to live with people who don't like you very much."

"It is. But that is the situation Harry has been presented with. I wish things were different, but we all must do the best we can with what life allots us, don't we?"

Hermione didn't respond as she thought about Harry with a heavy heart. He'd had a poor luck of the draw. He didn't deserve any of this.

"Either way… Voldemort's dead. We have Harry to be thankful for that, at least," she said finally.

"…Actually, I'm not so sure of that fact myself. Disappearance and death are two wholly different things."

"…Professor?"

"It is my belief - and there exist many others who think similarly - that Voldemort may be gone from Britain, but not necessarily dead. And by this strand, may return one day as the Dark Lord he was."

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. "Not dead? But surely… he's been gone for so long, and there haven't been any signs of him at all. Wouldn't it be the most logical explanation?"

"I agree. But where Lord Voldemort is concerned, I've learned on more than one occasion that logic is quite turned on its head," Dumbledore replied cryptically.

"Now, let's have no more talk of the past, hmm?" He said straightening himself in his seat and bringing a smile to his face once more. "Tell me more about your classes. Perhaps we can tailor some of our own lessons to complement your education."

* * *

"Hermione, Hermione where have you been? We've been looking for you everywhere!" Ron called out to her. They came hurrying over from the Fat Lady's portrait as she rounded the corner of the hall, on her way back from Dumbledore's office after their meeting. She looked up in surprise at the sound of her name. She hadn't been paying any attention to where she'd been going, her mind full of thoughts from her conversation earlier that night.

"Erm- nowhere," she lied automatically. "The library."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Of course you were. Anyway, you're not going to believe this - Harry made the Gryffindor Quidditch team!"

_"What?"_

"Yeah!"

"But... Didn't you say they don't allow first years onto the house teams?"

"They don't! Harry's the first one in about - how long was it, Harry?"

"A century," Harry ask breathlessly. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet in restrained excitement.

"Wow...wait, how did it happen? Tell me everything."

The two boys jabbered away at Hermione as the trio made their way through the portrait hole and into the common room. It turned out stone-faced Professor McGonagall did have a soft spot…for Gryffindor Quidditch it seemed, of all things, because she had seen Harry fly and immediately drafted him for the team, first-year rules quite forgotten.

"Wow Harry, congratulations... when will you be starting practice?"

"I dunno, probably next week. I have to wait to get a broom first. Professor McGonagall is helping me order one from London. I think I'm going to get the new Nimbus, Ron's been telling me about how it's the latest model and has…"

As Harry chatted on, Hermione couldn't help but reflect over what she had learned about him tonight. For someone like him, an orphan who had the past that he'd had, it was almost unfathomable how good-natured he had turned out to be. His liveliness and embrace of challenge and adventure, they had developed in spite of what had happened to him, and in spite of Lord Voldemort.

Hermione had never really given Lord Voldemort, the figure, much thought before. She'd read all about his reign of terror in her books, of course… but Dumbledore had always seemed keen on avoiding the subject of the Dark Lord and the war. Hermione had chalked it up to the wounds being still too fresh for him. She couldn't blame him for not wanting to speak of it. It sounded like it had been horrible. Her own birth parents, from what she had gathered, had also passed during the war, though she imagined they had been one of many casualties that war inevitably brought. But here, standing before her, chattering away about broomstick models, was someone her own age who had been directly affected, in the worst way possible, by Lord Voldemort himself. What sort of man, Dark Lord or not, killed infants? Only the very lowest imaginable, surely…

No. Worse than that. Not even a man could do it. Only a monster.


	9. Chapter 9 - Escape

*****A/N*****

Sorry for the delay. Posting two to make up for it.

R&R, much thanks.

* * *

**Chapter 9 - Escape**

Cold.

It was all he felt.

It's velvety tendrils as it seeped from the walls, enveloping him slowly, softly, until it almost felt like a lover's embrace…

But then eventually, always, it would sink in through his skin and weigh him down, choking him in its vengeful iron grip, until he was drowning in it, scrabbling for breath.

Cold.

And Darkness.

They were the only things in his world now. Always present… always reliable…surrounding him, his constant companions these long ten years. The worst sort of bedfellows, yet…there was some semblance of solace in it, however miniscule it may be, knowing that at least they would always continue to be there.

The prisoner shivered. His long, lank hair, matted and disgusting after not having seen a wash for years, trembled around his face as he shook. His hair was black, although even if it had it been any other color it would have been impossible to tell anyway, there was so much dirt and grime in it. He rubbed his arms futilely. He was long experienced to know that nothing, no normal means of generating warmth, could dispel this particular type of coldness. This cold…it was inhuman. Unnatural. It was not skin deep. Even if he set his skin on fire, it would not shake this cold that latched on to his chest. It permeated the soul.

Despite it, the man attempted to pull at the rags hanging off of his thin frame, now only mottled skin and bone, closer around himself. But what had used to be clothes were now only strips of paper-thin fabric, ripped and full of holes, and did not help contain any warmth. He hadn't expected it to anyway. He curled into himself in his usual corner of the damp, black cell, as far back as he could press himself into the rough stone, and closed his eyes.

Years ago…when he had still been young, and naïve, he had been filled with fire and righteous indignation over his unjust imprisonment in this hellhole. He was _innocent…_had not committed the murders he had been thrown in here for. He, all of them, had been outplayed by someone much more clever, a rat who had been hiding in plain sight, overlooked, until it had been too late. At the moment of his arrest he hadn't even bothered trying to escape, as the understanding of the terrible, ingenious duplicity had washed over him in that cracked street. He could only stand and laugh in irony and in misery as the Aurors chained him up and took him away. Once he had been locked behind the bars, though, he had come back to his senses, and had screamed, paced, expended his energy uselessly as he raged in the very same cell he was still sitting in now. It had all been futile, of course. Those _creatures,_ they had lapped at his rage like it was a feast. They had sucked him dry those first few months, until he had been left cold and clammy and shaking in his cell, delirious, not of his own mind.

But now…well, he had learned better. He left himself devoid of emotion and reaction, this way, they could take nothing from him. Not that there would have been anything left to take, for there was nothing left for which to feel. There was no hope for himself anymore. Even if he were free, even if he escaped from here, his life, there was little purpose left. There was no one on the outside left to receive him. No one who would deign to trust him at all. He didn't care about proving his innocence. He didn't care much about anything. Innocence, guilt…these things didn't matter. There was no distinction there where he was concerned.

The past decade had taught him a difficult lesson. Fairness and justice…these were not rights that man could claim. Fairness was a figment of men's own making and existed only in their own collective imagination. The reality of life made no such accommodations for such useless, innocuous things like fairness. Instead, the cold darkness of reality plowed remorselessly over people who were weak enough to believe in such fairy tales.

So when the fire of his indignation had died down, the only thing that had been left to him to feel was an incredible, all consuming, and debilitating loneliness. It truly was his greatest weakness.

When he had been Outside – as he now came to distinguish it from the hellhole of Inside – he had been a social creature. Talking, laughing, showing off… never liked being alone. Never liked the solitude of his own thoughts and reflections. It was better to laugh and live than to think too hard about things like consequences or the nuances of his world. He'd believed in only two things, as a young man: In the loyalty of friends, and the inevitable triumph of good over evil.

His family life had been subpar, he hadn't gotten any indoctrination that way, had rebelled in every way he could. Instead, he'd forged his own family through his friends, his very best friends. He could still see them in his minds eyes…young, hearty, always laughing, always happy, even in the face of the war and death and darkness that loomed over their young adulthood. Always eager to carry the banner for the light. Always hopeful. Always loyal.

But not all had been loyal, had they…

The man stirred himself out of that part of his memories. It was too painful to think about his old friends and his old life. They were wisps of memory now, no more and no less. Reality had seen to that. His illusion of happiness had been shattered wholly and completely on that autumn night a decade ago. Friendship… dead. Justice…evaporated.

He didn't believe in anything anymore. There wasn't anyone to call a friend now. Here, his life was lived inside the recesses of his own mind, and it was no brighter and no warmer there than the confines of the cell in which his body inhabited. Alone.

Always alone.

But…

"…The usual rounds then, Minister? We can start down here, the most unpleasant ones you know…"

Voices could be heard from the hall. His ears perked up. He peeled himself from his position on the back wall and made to scoot closer to the bars of his cage to listen, disbelieving.

Voices. Speech. English.

_People._

"Yes, yes, let's get the worst over with first, shall we…" the voice of a second man said.

"Watch your step there, Minister…"

Footsteps, descending the staircase at the end of his corridor. He could hear them, but he could see nothing through the gloom of the blackness.

"How have things been Warden? Give me the short rundown, please. I would prefer not to stay long. You know how I dislike these visits, but it comes with the job, unfortunately. And as far between as they may be, they're never far enough between, I say."

The shuffle of feet and the carrying voices were getting louder. They were at the bottom of the steps now.

"Yes, Minister, of course. Things here are fine. The prisoners are being controlled; we've had no incidents. Well, aside from the one I owled you about a few months ago, with Dolohov, but he's since been, ah…dealt with."

"Yes, I remember… nasty piece of work, that one. And you say he's been dealt with appropriately? By the Dementors, I imagine?"

"Yes, quite right Minister. The Dementors, they're very effective, I'll give you that much. Though, to be honest, I can't profess to like them very much myself. They make me feel so…so…" The man gave a light cough and his words trailed away into nothingness.

"Ah yes, I know what you mean, about their…well. I feel the same way. Nevertheless, they've been very popular. The public has shown a very positive reaction to knowing they're here. Establishes confidence in the peace. Undoubtedly the only reason half of us still sleep soundly in our beds at night. Helps my campaign leaps and bounds, you've no idea…"

They were close now. Almost to his cell. The corridor was narrow; if he tried he could reach out a hand, almost touch them if they came down the aisle and close enough to his side…

No. No, it was a bad idea…it was always a bad idea to attract attention to oneself in here, it never led anywhere good. But at the same time… he couldn't pass up the chance for human contact, if only for an instant. He just couldn't, he was starved for it.

The click of sharp steps on stone, louder, click clack…shiny black polished shoes emerged from the darkness, illuminated by a torch one of the men was holding. It cast funny shadows all over the wall but now he could see the visitors clearly. There were two men; in thick wool cloaks, one had a scraggly black beard, the other was clean-shaven, shorter, holding his hat in his hand and a rolled up newspaper under his arm. Click, clack…they were right there.

He reacted suddenly. "Minister…" he rasped, pressing his face to the bars in one fast motion and gripping them tightly. The man on the other side dropped his bowler hat in shock as he jumped back from the bars of the cell.

"Merlin's beard, this one's lucid!"

"Minister…how are you?" he rasped again.

"Who is this, Warden?" the man demanded from his companion, picking up his hat quickly and holding it to his chest as if to calm himself.

"Er – this one… cell thirteen. It's Sirius Black, Minister," the Warden said, flipping frantically through a clipboard in his hand.

"My God…" said the Minister, his eyes going wide. "Sirius Black…I remember you. But you must have been in here…what, ten years now? How on earth are you still awake and talking?" he asked in wonderment.

"I…find ways to entertain myself," the prisoner replied, a note of derisive humor in his voice. It was hard to get the words out at anything above a whisper, his voice was so rusty from disuse.

"This is… quite peculiar, Warden," the Minister now said, this time directing his words to his companion, the one with the beard and clipboard, who was now looking at the prisoner as if he'd never seen him before.

"I - yes, Minister. I've never… he's usually very quiet, from what I know. Never had any problems with this one."

The Minister had turned back to peer curiously at the man behind the bars whose dirty unkempt hair fell all over his face so that only the faint suggestion of his features could be discerned.

"A model prisoner, are we, Black?" There was thinly veiled ice in his voice, though he had not raised it above a soft speaking level.

"Always, dear Minister," the prisoner mocked in return.

"Hm… haven't lost your charm, I see. How's that been serving you, in here?"

"Very well indeed…sir. Although I must confess, I'm flattered you even remember my old charms," the prisoner grated out, part of him desperate to keep the conversation going in whatever way he could, the other part taking in the stormy look that was crossing over the Warden's face the longer words were being exchanged…but what worse could they do to him, anyways? He was already in the very lowest depths of hell.

"Hm," the Minister had straightened his spine and sneering slightly. "It is not your charms I recall, Mr. Black, though I do remember your other, more _colorful_ activities very well indeed. What a scandal you caused…gave us all quite a turn at the Ministry that day, I daresay."

"Glad to be of service where I can, Minister."

"Haven't changed a jot in here, I can see, Black. Still as insolent as ever. Even then, you needed to have the last laugh. Led right to your downfall that little charade did. After the night of _His_ fall, when the rest of us thought it was all over, decided to turn up and have some last bit of…fun, didn't you? And was sent straight to Azkaban right after - "

" - Without a trial. I do hope you remember that part as well, Minister."

"Ah…yes. That's right. Dumbledore wasn't very happy about that one, made quite a fuss afterwards, if I recall correctly. But what was the point of a trial? The evidence was clear as day. It was no less than you deserved, Black."

"Evidence… perhaps. You should know, Minister, that the eyes can deceive sometimes even the greatest of men. And lesser men, well, much more often…"

The Minister narrowed his own eyes slightly at the thinly veiled insult.

"Such strange notions you have, Mr. Black. Are you saying you deny murdering that street full of Muggles, and that poor wizard boy? I daresay it's a little late for pleas and repentance at this point. Prison is too good for you, if you ask me."

The prisoner said nothing.

"Either way, it's not me you have to take it up with. This was before I became Minister, though I could only wish in my dearest dreams that that little slice of justice could have been attributed to me. Your arrest… well that was all Barty Crouch's good work, I'm sorry to say," the Minister finished coldly.

He was now placing his bowler hat carefully back on his head and stepping away from the cell. The conversation was over.

"Warden. Let's continue. I think we're done with this hall."

"Yes Minister," his companion mumbled. "This way please."

"Wait!" the prisoner rasped once more.

The Minister and his companion paused halfway to turning around. The prisoner shifted his weight and lifted himself a little bit higher and reached half an arm out of his bars. The Warden jerked in response and his hand went immediately into his coat pocket, reaching for what the man didn't need to guess twice for.

"May I…?" The prisoner gestured two thin fingers toward the Minister's armpit, where the rolled up newspaper was still tucked tightly. "If you're done, Minister…"

The Minister hesitated.

"I – well, I suppose it can do no harm, not with your… situation. It's a dated paper anyways," he said after a moment and handed the paper over, snatching his hand back quickly right after. The prisoner grasped the other end of the paper tightly as if it were a lifeline to another world, and pulled it into his cell, but in his weakness, the paper felt ten times as heavy as it ought to have, and it fell onto the stone floor. He grabbed it again quickly and pulled it to his chest.

The Minister watched him dispassionately, and said, "Think of it as my little gift to you for this… illuminating conversation. I hope we never have the displeasure of speaking again. Goodbye, Mr. Black."

He adjusted his hat once more and then, with his companion, turned around and retreated down the way they had come, the clicking of their heeled shoes reverberated loudly through the stone hall as they made their exit, the light from the torch flame bobbing in their wake. There was no indication from any of the other cells that their inhabitants had noticed the entrance, nor the exit, of their short-lived visitors.

The prisoner watched them go, pressed against the bars, until he could see and hear no more. Then, cradling the paper to his thin, caved chest, he slunk back to his dark back corner towards where one small square of bright light shone on the floor of his cell, a gifted shaft from the high, narrow window above him. He unfurled the paper slowly, with reverence, as if beholding a priceless treasure and placed it directly in the path of the lighted square, smoothing it down with his hands lovingly and squinting at the words through the dimness of his surroundings.

"The Daily Prophet - September 13, 1991"

Something inside of him gave a little tug. September… the start of Hogwarts. A date that had been important in his past. His mind did some slow math as he counted the years. He had entered shortly after Halloween in 1981…so that meant he truly was almost hitting the ten-year mark. Or maybe the anniversary had already arrived and passed…the Minister had said it was a dated paper. And if it was 1991 and he had truly been in here ten years, then…his heart twisted painfully at the next thought.

His Godson had turned eleven.

Harry.

In his isolation on this God-forsaken island, he had heard nothing of the boy since he had entered. Where he was, who he was living with, he had no idea. And he likely never would, he thought with a deep regret. But if the boy had turned eleven in July of this year, then he would almost certainly be at Hogwarts, he had no doubt. Dumbledore would have seen to that.

The man read slowly through the front-page article, and then turned the page carefully to read the inside spread. A headline at the very bottom of the third page caught his eye. "Ministry Employee Win's Annual Grand Prize."

He read through the short post and glanced down at the accompanying picture. Weasley… he'd never heard of them before. A family of ten waved merrily up at him. They all had very red hair, and all wore smiles of merriment. It was an emotion he couldn't relate to anymore. He gripped the corner of the page, intending on turning to the next page when something caught his eye.

His thumb was on the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph, where, comically, a boy with a rat on his shoulder was attempting to fend off the advances of a little old lady smacking her lips at him. An unbidden memory came to mind, of another motherly figure attempting to grab his own younger self during one Christmas, as the woman's son, his friend, laughed uproariously from behind her back, glasses askew with the hilarity. The tiniest bit of warmth, a rarity in itself, came through him.

Lips set in the slightest ghost of a smile, the prisoner looked at the picture a little bit closer.

His blood froze in his veins.

It was… No, it couldn't be. It wasn't possible. No…no…

_The rat._

How many times had he seen that rat? How many times had he run through the Hogwarts forest beside that rat, those familiar tufts of light brown fur right there in those exact places? _How many times had he seen a boy shrink down to become that very same rat?_

His breath was now coming in short gasps as he attempted to get control over his racing mind.

No…he could not jump to conclusions. The picture was blurry. It was hard to tell. Many rats were bound to look alike. But even as he pressed his nose to the newspaper in a desperate attempt to discern the features of the animal through the grainy image, his heart sunk and in its wake, extinguished any warmth there might have been before.

There was no mistaking it. The paw… it was missing a toe. The right paw.

It was him, it was definitely _him. _It was there, the paw, it was proof.

_It was him._

_"Wormtail," _the man breathed.

He was trembling violently now, his entire frame was now as he crumbled the edge of the newspaper in his vice-like grip.

His eyes darted over the article once more, looking for the words he had read just moments before, seeking confirmation of the encroaching fear that was consuming him. _Four children…at Hogwarts. Hogwarts. Where…_Harry _was. No…NO…_

He couldn't let it happen. He had to stop him. Stop _Wormtail. _He hissed at the name. He was the only one who knew… no one would believe him even if he told. He was the only one who knew, and the only one who could prevent it. He had to keep Harry away, safe, from that… _vermin._

It was the least he could do. For his friends. His dead, gone friends and their orphaned son. All his fault. It was all his fault… He owed them more than a lifetime's worth of repayment could measure up to.

Anguish and bile rose up in him as one and he slammed his fist into the wall in an effort to control himself. It was a rare display of emotion. When he pulled his hand back, his knuckles were covered in blood. He didn't even flinch, merely stared at the trickling red drops dripping onto the stone.

His breath and mind were racing. He had to get out of here. Get out, and hunt down the rat. He could waste no time. If it was already September, or October… The rat, if it was with the freckle-faced boy, would have direct, no-barred access to Harry within the walls of Hogwarts. All it would take would be one flick of a wand, one soft swish of a knife…

He seized the paper and scrambled to his feet, swaying unsteadily as the blood rushed too quickly to his head. The man paced in his small cell, back and forth, back and forth, warring with himself, thinking. Could he do it? He could…he could, and he had to. Immediately. No time could be wasted.

He steeled his resolve at what he needed to do. He had to leave.

Tonight.

He drew his hands into fists and closed his eyes tightly, drawing every ounce of magic within himself that he could muster. All the magic he still possessed, what had not yet been sapped away by the cold and the desolation. He pulled it all within himself, it was barely enough.

He transformed.

Bruised, waxy skin became thick, burred, black fur that covered every inch of him. The face became a long snout. The grey, manic eyes from before became black and animalistic, yet…still intelligent, and even strangely enough, slightly more human.

A giant black dog stood where seconds before that had been a ragged looking man. The dog was towering and long limbed, but its great size was diminished by its incredible gauntness. Ribs poked through clearly in its emaciated abdomen and its hair was coarse and dirty and wild.

The dog shivered slightly and gave a puff of air through his nose. He retreated into the shadows of his cell as _something_, black and tall, floated by, a wash of coldness preceding it. But this time, the cold was not debilitating. He waited until it had gone from the corridor.

He padded closer to the bars of his cage and nudged one of the icy metal rods with his nose. He squeezed his head in the space between two of the thinner bars – it was a tight fit. He flattened his ears back to try to make himself appear more streamlined, and rotated his head back and forth, slowly, painstakingly, and patiently until finally, his head was outside of his cell and the two bars were sitting, loosely, on both sides of his neck.

In this position, he lowered himself down onto the floor and turned his body sideways to flatten himself even further, then shimmied his way forward inch by inch, scraping his skin painfully, until he had managed to pull his shoulders through, his arms and paws, his ribcage, and finally his back legs. Panting heavily at the exertion, the dog rose on his four padded feet and shook himself off slightly, turning his head warily to check that there was no one in sight. Sticking to the sharp shadows cast on the stone around him, he slinked his way slowly down the hall, away from his cell, towards the stairs that the man with the bowler hat and his bearded companion had come down only just that evening, though it seemed like ages ago now.

"Who's there?" a voice rasped from his right as he passed yet another dark, seemingly lifeless cell. It was a man's voice. Part of the giant black dog's brain registered the voice as belonging to someone he once knew in a past life…was it Lestrange? He couldn't be sure. After awhile, everyone tended to sound the same in here. He stilled, and remained silent and unmoving in the blackness. There was the creak of chains and the shuffled of movement against the stone floor. After a minute, silence. The man, whoever he was, seemed to have retreated back.

The giant dog continued padding softly down the corridor, then up the stairs. When he reached the next floor, he was in another corridor, but this one had no cells. Only one lone dull, lit torch in a bracket further down resided in this hall. He padded down it too, then up another set of stairs. Finally, at the top of the stairs, there was a thick, heavy, wooden door set with solid metal hinges and bracing. He nudged at it with his thin shoulder, but it didn't budge. It was no use, the door was locked staunchly shut and he had no wand. The dog turned back around and went down a different corridor this time, but it dead-ended. His heart was thumping loudly in his chest now. There was no way out, it seemed, from this section the prison. Damn it…

A loud gale suddenly rushed through the corridor and blew out the lone torch, plunging the hall into complete and utter darkness. The dog's lifted its head. If there was wind, there was -

A window.

There, at the end of the hall, where there had been no light earlier. Shrouded in the darkness, still. It was a tall and narrow 'window', if it could even be called such. It was really just a hole in the wall, the sort of thin opening that castles had for archers to fit their bows through stealthily. He stood up on his back two legs and pressed himself against the wall. If he stood at his tallest this way, he could just make his paws over the edge of the opening.

He stepped back then with a running start, launched himself at the small slit in the wall and landed halfway on it, knocking the wind out of himself and scrabbling against the stone for a grip. He balanced halfway in and halfway out, his front end getting a full blast of the hard mixture of wind and sleet outside the castle walls.

He looked down. He had been held in the bowels of the castle dungeons so his forays up those several flight of stairs had only put him at about third floor level. But the castle itself was on a tall rock that jutted out of the black ocean like a lonely sentinel. With his dog's eyes he could barely discern through the blackness the outline of sharp, jagged rocks far below. It was a long drop.

He launched himself out the window and arced through the air.

The dog let out of small yelp of pain as he hit the roiling waves with a loud smack, but it was the sudden spasm of his leg that had made him cry out; he'd lacerated his calf on one of the rocks. Gasping for breath as he struggled to keep his head afloat in the crashing water, he paddled as hard as he could towards what he thought was East, his injured leg dangling uselessly in the water behind him. East towards England. He would get there.

Hours later, delirious from the pain and the freezing wetness, he realized that he might _not _get there after all. He was exhausted. There was no energy left in him, his muscles were screaming in agony, he was losing a lot of blood from his wound. And his magic…

He felt himself changing even as he reached this thought. The black furred, sopping body of the giant dog returned to its previous form, long limbs became thin, pale ones. The paddling from before turned into less effective treading as his swimming slowed and he struggled with the simple task of keeping himself above water level. He floated along, mostly being pushed by the strong current, he didn't have the strength to fight it, he wasn't sure if he was even going in the right direction anymore.

His breath was becoming shallow, and he had started shivering violently in the water, inhibiting even his most basic swimming motions. So weak. He reflected on his decision for the first time that evening, as he realized he was probably dying from blood loss and likely hypothermia as well. He had acted rashly, had no idea just how far from the Isles the godforsaken rock of a prison had been. He wouldn't reach it in time; he would die out here floating in the velvety blackness until it swallowed him into its depths. He would never see it again… never see -

_Land._

There, rising out from the greyness illuminated by the barest hint of a sun on the cusp of rising. A tree line.

He went limp with relief, then attempted to surge himself forward for one last strong push. It worked…for a little bit. But the exhaustion inevitably overtook him again, and for the last few hundred feet, he did not even have the energy to keep himself upright. He rolled over onto his back and let himself go completely lifeless and the waves, perhaps finally taking pity on him after the long night of relentless torment, carried his battered body gently towards the mass of sand and wild jungle.

He felt his head nudge something solid as he was deposited onto the rocky beach. He crawled the last few feet to get out of the water, then collapsed, fully and completely, on solid land. Lying facedown, he rubbed his bearded face into the grainy sand. He had never been so happy to feel anything in all his miserable life.

He was here. He was free.

The man finally succumbed to the darkness that had been threatening the edge of his consciousness all night, and knew no more.


End file.
